Stolen
by LUNAticX
Summary: The Carriedos and Kirklands had been at each other's necks for centuries. When the Beilschmidts announce a conference with the Kirklands, the Carriedos go to every length to make sure the meeting ends in failure. And when it does, Arthur Kirkland, head of the family as well as a renowned pirate, looks for revenge. But nothing is ever as it seems. Pirate!AU. Human names used.
1. Prologue

**London, England**

"C'mon~! Please? Pretty please?"

Arthur threw his quill down. "What do you _want_ with me, Alfred? I've told you already, no. Absolutely not. This meeting is for a mature audience."

"I'm mature," said Alfred F. Jones, indignant. "You let Mattie go. What about me? I'm older than him!"

"What difference does it make? Matthew is simply there as a mediator, nothing more. It'll just bore you."

"I'm not stupid. I can understand the political stuff you old geezers talk about."

"This attitude is exactly what I'm trying to point out to you. Now if we're done here, you have lessons to be getting back to."

"But they're boring!" Alfred complained loudly, throwing his head back. "This is why I hate it here; I never get to do anything exciting. I might as well move out already, you know?"

"Fine," said Arthur almost immediately. "You can come. But don't say anything during the meeting. Not even a peep."

Alfred saluted. "Yes, sir!"

Arthur Kirkland sent out his ward and leaned back in his great chair. Alfred had always been a curious boy, wanting constantly to travel the world and see its eccentrics. Arthur wouldn't hear of it. Alfred was too young to understand the dangers that adventuring brought.

But he knew. In his young days, he had done himself a ton of adventuring, and 90 percent of the time he'd run and gotten into trouble. He still often went out sailing, but his privateering days were on its decline. He worked mostly for the government now, acting as the court's advisor.

He also dabbled in the magical arts, but no one needed to know that.

He couldn't understand Alfred's reasons for wanting to follow in his footsteps. Perhaps Alfred really was that clueless, or he simply wanted to do Arthur proud. Either way, Arthur would put a stop to his messing around.

"I'll make sure of it," Arthur swore to himself.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings. Arthur let his visitor in.

"Never mind," he said, sweeping his hand toward the door. "Get out, Frog."

"No, wait! Wait, wait! I wanted to ask you if I may accompany you on the trip to Italy."

"No. Get out."

Francis Bonnefoy pouted. "Come on. We're old friends, aren't we? You trust me, don't you?"

"I'm not sure if my definition of 'friends' and 'trust' is the same as yours." Arthur sighed, massaging his temples. "All right. Why are you here? If you have a good reason, maybe I'll let you on my ship."

"I know we've had a history . . ."

"That's an understatement."

"But I promised myself I would always watch over Matthew, even after his transition into your custody. I want to be there to make sure he's all right."

Arthur raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Really. Is that all?"

"And also . . . because I owe you."

"Like hell you do."

"I'll be there to make sure the meeting goes accordingly. No matter how many times we've fought, I'll still have your back. That's a promise I intend to keep."

"I'm afraid I can't say the same."

Arthur pushed his chair back and stood, revealing a man weary of his past but glowing like a regal king. It was misleading because it hid the fearsome pirate he was deep beneath. Arthur faced the windows, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I cannot trust you, Francis. I can try, but as long you remain friends with that bastard, I can't. Apologies."

Francis bowed his head, and even though Arthur couldn't see, he knew the Frenchman was trying to hide a smile.

"I understand; it's a tough decision," said Francis. He stepped back. "At your orders."

"We depart in three days. Be ready by then, or we're leaving you."

Francis grinned. "_Oui, captaine."_

"Now get out."

He did manage to get the Frenchman out of his study, but only after Francis tried to grope him and the guards physically restrain him. It was their typical relationship.

Arthur wondered who gave the Frog bloody permission into the country. He could have sworn he placed a restraining order on him. How did Francis manage to bypass security?

He decided to see how his wards were getting on with their studies.

Arthur stepped out into the bright sunlight of the garden. His mansion was large, but with all the company he kept (as well as the involuntary guests) his home was rarely quiet or lonely. He wanted to keep it that way.

Beyond the colourful flora of his garden was the front courtyard. Alfred was standing, waving around a sword, trying to apparently show Matthew a new trick. Matthew was sitting amidst his work and books, all scattered around the bench, and he didn't appear amused.

Upon seeing Arthur approach them, Matthew kicked Alfred in the shin, urging him to put the sword down. But Alfred was an idiot.

". . . So I was like, 'Dude, let the slave go or you're going to be losing more than a few pence this time,' and you should have seen his face! It was hilarious! I'll take you to the market next time. I can't wait to see what that jerk will do."

Arthur paused behind Alfred's back and cleared his throat. Alfred, startled, swung around so fast he nearly chopped Arthur's head off. Arthur, being a pirate, dodged the blade easily.

"Alfred, why are you playing with my sword?"

"What?" Alfred stared at the sword as if it was his first time seeing it. "This? Haha . . . No idea. You want it back?"

Arthur held his hand out. Alfred returned the sword, hanging his head in shame. "Sorry."

"Mmhmm." Arthur turned to Matthew. "How are your studies coming along?"

"It's fine," said the quiet young man. "I saw Francis earlier."

Arthur frowned. "Did he say anything?"

Matthew shook his head. "Not much. Just that's he's coming with us on the ship."

"Oh my God!" Alfred suddenly exclaimed, earning him the attention again. "Me too!"

Matthew and Arthur turned back to each other.

"If that Frog tries anything, just tell me."

"It's not that he's a bad person," tried Matthew. "It's just . . . he's so overbearing at times. I don't know if I can live up to his expectations. It's hard enough living up to yours."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched. "I'm sure you'll do fine," he said tightly.

"Tea, sir?"

"Ah yes," said Arthur, taking the tea from the tray, "thank you, Leon." (1)

The Asian inclined his head and offered Matthew a cup, who took it gratefully.

"Are you coming with us, too, Leon?"

Leon nodded once. "Mr. Kirkland says my skills might come in handy."

It was true, Arthur thought. Leon was capable of many things and was the most independent out of any of them. When he was young, the British government had taken him away from his family in Asia. It was a difficult decision and Arthur didn't think Yao would ever forgive him. But compared to those Spanish bastards, Yao's resentment was mild.

Arthur didn't like thinking about them. Those Carriedos.

The name always struck fear in the government. The Carriedos terrorized their lands the minute opportunity presented itself, and the most recent head of the family had taken up piracy. Arthur was afraid he'd be getting competition soon, if not already. He didn't need a bigger headache, aside from the one caused by taking care of so many youngsters.

"Arthur, do you want us to run down to the harbour and stock the ship?" Matthew asked. "I don't think Alfred can take any more of studying."

"Er, yes. Yes, do that. Thank you. Hmm . . . it seems like I'll need to write a letter to Beilschmidt . . ."

The Brit swung around and marched back into the mansion, clearly distracted with something. These days, he always was.

"You can come with us, Leon," said Matthew.

Leon placed the tray down and ran after his other two adoptive siblings. Alfred was trailing in front, boasting about his heroism.

In the docks below, the _Britannia_ rocked mightily from side-to-side, her angel white masts fluttering in the wind.

* * *

_To whomever it may concern,_

_I only hope this meeting won't turn out to be the worst mistake I'll ever make._

_A. Kirkland_

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated! **

**Further releases will most likely be random, given the circumstances of school, so bear with me. ^_^"  
**

* * *

**(1) It is said that Hong Kong's English name is Leon, and his Chinese name could either be Wang Jia Long or Li Xiao Chun. Personally, either is fine with me, but since Hong Kong is living under England's roof, I've changed his name to Leon. **

**Source: Hetalia Archives**


	2. A Visit From An Acquaintance

**Kingdom of Germany, Holy Roman Empire**

The Beilschmidts were an old and ancient family, spanning their generations back centuries.

They were easily the most influential noble family in the entire empire. They had many connections across Europe, and perhaps even a little bit east, and west into the New World. The current head of the family was none other than Gilbert Beilschmidt, a fearless and intrepid young man with occasional narcissistic issues. However, due to his rebellious and rather irresponsible nature, his younger brother, Ludwig Beilschdmit, had taken upon himself to lead the family in his stead.

Albeit he had no choice whatsoever in this matter. It was a mystery the family managed to stay intact for the few years that Gilbert did run it before Ludwig was old enough to take over.

Of course being older, he still had his own responsibilities. Like, finding Ludwig so he could do the work for him.

"Hey, Luds, the door's calling!"

As someone knocked away at the door in the background, Gilbert ducked out of another empty room. He'd been wandering the corridors for few minutes, searching for his younger brother. Why did the house have to be so freaking big?!

"Luds! Someone's knocking on the door! Hey!" Gilbert huffed. "Where the heck is that guy? The bathroom?"

He found Ludwig's room by accident. A maid was inside cleaning. She wasn't fazed by Gilbert's dynamic entry; she witnessed this almost everyday.

"Hey, have you seen Luds?" Gilbert asked her.

"Try downstairs, Master Gilbert."

_Well, that was pretty vague._

Gilbert headed for the stairs. He was normally too awesome to answer the door himself. Just this once, he supposed, he ought to do the honours. In the parlour, Ludwig was already at the front to Gilbert's surprise, greeting a fair-skinned young man with warm brown hair and amber eyes.

"Luds, when did you . . . ?"

"Ah, _bruder_. There you are. Where have you been?"

"I—"

Ludwig gestured to the stranger. "This is Feliciano Vargas. He'll be joining us for the meeting."

Feliciano Vargas performed a quaint little bow in Gilbert's direction. "Master Gilbert, it's nice to meet you again. I'll be escorting the both of you to Italy."

"Oh, I remember you," said Gilbert. "You're the little guy that played with Luds a lot when you were children, right?"

Ludwig smacked his brother on the head. "Have a sense of decency, please."

Feliciano laughed. "It's great to see the both of you, ve~ It's been kind of lonely back home. Grandpa is always busy with his work, and . . . well, you know."

"What about your brother? The grumpy kid?" asked Gilbert.

Feliciano's smile twitched. "I don't have a brother anymore."

"What?" Gilbert was confused. "But—"

Ludwig shot him a warning look.

Gilbert knew he was missing a valuable detail. Feliciano obviously didn't want to speak about the topic of his brother, so Gilbert decided to save the inquiry for a later date. He knew when to recognize a sore subject. Still, he wandered what happened to Feliciano during the years they haven't seen each other.

"You two better start packing," came a certain aristocrat's voice.

Roderich Edelstein marched up to their little group. "We've just received a confirmation from Arthur Kirkland. They'll be present at the meeting."

"Excellent," said Ludwig. "Bruder."

"Sorry, Feli. I must excuse myself to do the Austrian pansy's bidding," said Gilbert, and he ran upstairs. Roderich was scowling, head low and mumbling some German curses.

Ludwig smiled faintly at Feliciano. "Would you like to join me for some refreshments?"

"Will there be pasta?"

"If you want."

"Yay!"

"They'll arrive shortly," said Roderich, who headed back into the kitchen to oversee the preparations.

Ludwig and Feliciano sat on the velvety sofas, catching up on recent developments. It had been an eternity, it seemed to Ludwig, since he'd seen Feliciano. The Italian had grown somewhat, though mentally he remained the same way he was all those years ago. He often wondered how Feliciano managed to survive the political world, being a diplomat and a clumsy airhead at the same time.

"I think it's them," explained Feliciano. "They're always watching me, every step of the way. Even though they're not around anymore . . ."

"Your parents would be proud of you."

"Thank you. I wish I could say the same of Lovino. It's been six years, Ludwig." Feliciano looked up, eyes heavy with sadness. "Six years and all this time I haven't seen him."

Ludwig watched on with concern. "That long?"

"I know I have to move on, but I can't. I just . . ."

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Feliciano nodded, wiping at his nose, sniffling slightly. "Yeah, you're right. I've lost too many people, Ludwig. My grandfather's growing old, and he'll be gone soon. Then I would be all alone. I thought once that if I couldn't have parents, then there was no way I'd lose my brother. But in the end, I lost him too."

Ludwig couldn't imagine the pain Feliciano was shouldering. If he had lost Gilbert, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. Not only that, but Feliciano had to live through the trauma of losing both his parents. Ludwig was stupefied at how Feliciano managed to stay so innocent despite that.

"I'm sorry, Feliciano."

The Italian looked up. "No, let's be grateful that we were blessed with such a fortunate opportunity. We shouldn't let our meeting go to waste. It's been a while since we've talked, hasn't it?"

"Indeed."

"I think you've gotten more buff, Captain."

Ludwig sighed. "I told you not to call me that."

"Why not? We used to play Toy Soldier, didn't we?"

"But we were children then. Be more serious, Feliciano."

The Italian's face brightened considerably. "You're always so serious~ Somebody has to be the fun guy!"

"Feliciano . . ."

"Hm?" Feliciano opened his eyes—a rare sight for the Italian. Then out of nowhere he said, "Ludwig, I never properly expressed my gratitude for you . . . but thank you. I'll never forget what you did for me all those years ago. I wouldn't be here without you."

Ludwig blushed deeply, but Feliciano didn't seem to notice. "Uh, _ja_. No problem."

An hour later, Gilbert came down with two large trunks in tow. That is, he made Roderich carry everything. He walked down the marble steps like a king.

"I'm ready!" Gilbert declared, spreading his arms.

"Great, let's get going," said Ludwig, standing up.

Roderich dropped the luggage to the floor with contempt and clapped twice. One of the mansion's attendants—her name was Elizabeta—emerged from the kitchen doors and dropped a plate of pasta into Feliciano's arms.

"Your pasta, sir?"

"Thank you, Elizabeta!"

She rejoined Roderich at his side, ever faithful. The both of them had been engaged for quite some time now, having confessed to each other a few months ago. Roderich had always been born a noble, but Elizabeta was a different story.

When she was younger, Gilbert had caught her sneaking into the mansion food stocks. Gilbert had found out that she often stole goods from them to feed herself and those she lived with. She came from a poor household, and her real family members had died pretty early in her life, leaving her room to befriend some other orphans in the same boat. Despite Elizabeta's obvious savage appearance at first, Gilbert had learned to gain her trust, and the both of them had become friends quickly.

A few years later and he offered her a position in their household, and she accepted. That was where Elizabeta had met Roderich. Of course Gilbert would never admit it. He didn't want to come between their relationship, so he backed out from the race. He was the head of the family, after all. He had a reputation to uphold—even if it meant sacrificing his own personal feelings.

"Is everything ready?" Ludwig asked.

"The carriage is waiting," said Roderich.

"Then we best be on our way."

"Have a safe trip!" Elizabeta said, waving. She pointed at Gilbert. "Don't kill yourself."

"Hey." Gilbert held his hands up in surrender. "I'm awesome. So."

He exited the mansion first with his head held high, and only then did Ludwig and Feliciano follow. Ludwig knew his older brother liked his spotlight.

They were soon on their way to Italy.

* * *

_Dear whoever cares to read,_

_Feliciano has changed a lot during these years. I keep wondering, thinking, fearing, that there is a part of him that has altered completely, perhaps even permanently. _

_A long time ago, his parents were murdered. Ever since then, he'd never been the same. His memories were wiped clean of the event and everything before it, leaving him living as an empty shell, having no idea of who he was, or what his name was.  
_

_I'd supported him all these years through literally everything, and I hadn't really thought about the repercussions of my friendship with him. Did I truly help him through his ordeal, or had I made it worse? He forgot everything for a reason, and even though his parents' death still draws a blank, I feel as though salvaging his personality alone was too much. What if he breaks again?  
_

_Roderich advises to leave it as it is; there's no use thinking of the past once it's been dealt with. Gilbert protests__—but I have my suspicions that he only dares to resist Roderich to annoy him._

_Who should I listen to? And I'm the so-called 'Head of the House'. Or Acting-Head__. I just . . . don't know what to think anymore. Some leader I am._

_~Ludwig Beilschmidt_

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**I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Reviews are always welcome; I'd like to see how I'm doing so far.**

**Next chapter: Enter Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and his little band of misfits. **


	3. We're Not Naming Her Tomato Box Fairy II

**Valencia, Spain**

The seaside Spanish market was bustling with activity, the air lively with chatter and salty from the sea. It was the securest location for pirates to dock in the area. Their ships blended in easily with other cargo carriers.

Piracy was often overlooked here because there wasn't much to loot from, seeing as the port was mostly a shipyard for agricultural products. Pillaging food was rare, especially with so many people around.

Navy vessels occasionally docked in Valencia and not many could tell them apart from a pirate ship. Unless one was asked for identification papers, everyone's identities remained confidential to themselves and no one else.

If this was any other place, those caught pirating would be persecuted and hanged.

A certain Spanish captain had recently sunk his ship, which was a shame, because he really liked his ship. He was here at the harbour trying to purchase a new one for his most recent scheme: sabotage the Anglo-German meeting in Italy. Without a fast vessel, there was no way they could put their heist into motion. They wouldn't be able to get to Italy in time otherwise.

"I'll pay forty pieces for the beauty behind me," said Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, jabbing a thumb behind him. "Take it or leave it."

"That's what I should be saying to you," said the ship merchant. "I'm toning down the price already. She started out at two hundred. She's large, sturdy and fast. If you aren't going pay the right price, I can't sell her to you."

"Stop being cheap, boss," spoke a voice from up above them. "Just give the bastard the money."

"What did you say, you little creep?" the merchant shot upward.

"Deaf now are you, greasy fatass," Lovino flung back.

"Lovi~ He's bullying me!" Antonio complained. "He won't sell me the ship!"

"That's because you're being a fucking cheapskate!" Lovino yelled from his place on the balcony above. He was sitting on the rail biting at a tomato. "Hurry the hell up, I'm getting hungry."

The ship merchant watched him eat the tomato and wondered if the Italian noticed it too, because clearly he couldn't have been hungry if he was eating. But since the captain was already so strange, it would make sense his crew was equally as messed up, right?

"Look, if I make it seventy pieces, could you please leave," the merchant nearly begged.

"I'll give you fifty."

"Sixty."

"Sixty-five, and that's my final price," Antonio stated.

Lovino smacked his forehead.

"Done," said the merchant, shaking Antonio's hand in triumph.

Antonio handed the money over and turned to gaze up at his new ship. It was long, strong and narrow—perfect for high notch chases. It had tall large black masts and the entire hull was painted a rich chestnut. The railings were gilded gold. "Isn't she just beautiful? I wonder if she has a siesta deck."

Lovino jumped down from the balcony, landing easily on his feet. It was only about three metres off the ground.

"What are you going to name it?"

"Her, Lovino, her."

"Whatever."

"What about . . ." A light bulb went off in Antonio's brain. "I got it! Tomato Box Fairy II!"

Lovino wanted to face palm again. "We are not naming it after your old shitty boat."

"She wasn't _just_ a boat! She was worthy of her title!"

"It sunk, boss."

"Well, I think Tomato Box Fairy II has a nice ring to it."

"See? This is why people don't take you seriously."

Antonio frowned. "Is that why my enemies always laugh at us when we sail past them?"

"No, really?"

Antonio was unaware of his lackey's sarcasm. "Let's call Holland and Bella and set sail. The crew's impatient enough as it is to get our plan underway."

"Count me out," said Lovino.

"Why? It'll be fun!"

"I'm not interested in your raids, boss. I only joined your crew for one reason, and this isn't it. I'm not killing anybody. That isn't what I signed up for."

Antonio chuckled lightly, giving his henchman an odd look. "No one is going to die, Lovi. We're just going to mess with Kirkland a little bit."

"And also Beilschmidt, you do realize. Aren't you bastards friends?"

"It's fine! Gilbert will understand."

"How did you even hear about the meeting? It was meant to be kept a secret, especially from pirates." Lovino narrowed his eyes at his boss. "What did you do?"

Antonio smiled. "I have my sources."

"I don't think I want to know what those sources are."

"No you don't. I don't want to spoil your innocence, after all."

Lovino Vargas was the only crew member aboard his ship that had a total headcount of zero. The others had at least killed one person, by accident, self-defense, or on purpose. Lovino had swore to him prior to joining his crew that he would be killing no one, and that he couldn't bring himself to regardless. Antonio often kidded with him that he was too cowardly to kill anyone, but the Spaniard knew that wasn't it.

Lovino did have a bloodlust, but it had been twisted by the urge for revenge. He was saving his anger for one man in particular, and his name was a mystery. Lovino rarely spoke of him.

In a way, Antonio respected Lovino. They had lived together for a few years now. They were family.

"Hold the ship while we're inland. Make sure it's docked in the cove. Kirkland is stopping at the same port and we absolutely cannot miss him. Unlike our ship, his is actually regulation."

Lovino sighed. "Whatever you say, boss."

"Well then, Holland should be done loading our cargo. We best be off. It'd be nice returning home, huh? You haven't in Italy for a while, have you?" Antonio rattled off some more questions; Lovino felt his irritation soar. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us to the city? Even to see the sights?"

"No thanks, bastard. I don't have a home anymore."

Lovino threw his leftover tomato into the ocean, which was quickly attacked by some surrounding seabirds. Lovino often acted like his past didn't concern him, or he didn't give a single crap about it, but Antonio had long learned to see through the Italian's mask. It spoke of a young boy forcing himself to disregard his feelings and all ties to anyone he cared about. Antonio didn't have the full story, and he never bothered to find out more.

He knew how to respect his crew members' privacy. Everyone had a secret. Including him.

"We should get going," said Lovino, hurrying off into the large crowd of sailors and merchants.

"W-wait for me!" Antonio called after him.

In the distance, a ship's bell sounded. Just a few more minutes until the Tomato Box Fairy II was ready to set sail.

"Also, we're calling it the _Ripoff_."

"What? Why?" Antonio demanded, hurt that his ship's name changed without his input.

"Because you've been fucking ripped off, dumbass."

"Captaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiinn!"

Antonio and Lovino turned, spotting a pretty blonde approaching them. She was waving amiably, her green eyes shining.

"Hey, Bella," greeted Antonio, smiling. "Are we ready?"

"Yep! Big Brother gives the all-clear. Tomato Box Fairy II is stocked and ready for travel."

"We are _not_ calling it . . . that," said Lovino. "We were the laughing stock of it for three years, and those three other years half of the name was scraped off to just _Box Fairy_, and even then it was—" Lovino stopped himself, because he felt like he just gave himself an aneurism explaining why Tomato Box Fairy was such a crappy name. "Look, we're not calling it that."

"Your _Ripoff_ isn't anywhere better," Antonio stated.

"Better than yours."

"How about we call her _Tesoro_?" Bella suggested. "It's proudly a Spanish-make, isn't it? It would be fitting."

Antonio's face lit up. "You're right, Bella! God, you're so smart."

"And besides, we've got our own very important treasure aboard, don't we?"

"That we do, that we do."

Said 'treasure' was the Carriedo family treasure, hidden inside a padded chest. It was currently held behind bars on the ship, but if it were Lovino's decision, he would have left the treasure back on land, where people could actually guard it. Ships were targets for pillages and eighty percent of the time, it happened. He just didn't understand his boss sometimes.

The Carriedo family treasure was also rumoured to hold the secret to immortality, but that was all it was: a rumour. It was better off as a mere story anyway. If it were true, tons of renegades and treasure hunters would flock the area, searching for it. They didn't need to attract more attention than they already were. Being pirates and all, secrecy was a blessing.

"_CAPITÁN!_" called a crew member from above the deck of the _Tesoro_. "We're ready!"

"Right!" Antonio answered back.

He met Holland near the gangplank, and the Dutchman was holding a piece of long parchment in his hands.

"What's that for?" asked Antonio.

"It's an inventory of what we have aboard," Holland said. "I don't understand some of these necessities, however. Do we truly need paella, Captain?"

"Sure we do! It's delicious."

"I still question it. Also, we seem to be missing grain, but we can stock up again once we get to Italy. What we have aboard should be enough for until then."

"Excellent! Let's climb aboard then. RAISE THE ANCHOR!"

"RAISE THE ANCHOR!" the crew members echoed.

Antonio went on first, followed by Bella, Holland and then Lovino. The Italian helped lift the gangplank onboard once everyone was accounted for.

"Wow, she is amazing, isn't she?" Antonio said, marvelling at the sight of his new ship. He couldn't have been happier after he'd been greeted by the view of the deck. "She's perfect. I think it's love at first sight."

"That's disgusting," Lovino said, shattering his hopes and dreams. Antonio sulked.

"I'll chart the course, Captain," said Holland.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks."

Holland—which wasn't his real name, by the way; he only called himself that—was a strong and able-bodied man, as well as the recently promoted First Mate. He sported a distinct scar on his forehead which originated from an unfortunate gunpowder accident. Ever since then, the crew had been dubbing him 'the Flying Dutchman'. Holland wasn't quite fond of that nickname. His younger sister was probably the only person who could get away with calling him that.

He'd joined the crew along with his sister Bella some seven years ago. Because of that, Antonio had the time to get to know them, as well as develop a certain relationship with them both. Sometimes he wished it could be more, but Holland didn't let anyone get close to his sister. And he had a reason to be. She was the only female aboard.

Not much was known about their past, and Antonio only knew that both Holland and Bella had come from the Kingdom of Netherlands and Belgium respectively, and that they hadn't even known they were related until the will from their dead parents spoke of their relation.

It got Antonio thinking too. What if he had a brother or sister he never knew of? Well, aside from the many siblings he already had, anyway. But then again, it wouldn't matter. If he did have a missing sibling, he would count them lucky they didn't have the life he did. No matter how exciting piracy was played out to be, Antonio had wished once before that he could just have a normal life like everyone else.

"Bastard?"

"Huh? Wha . . . ?"

Lovino peered at him strangely. "You blanked out there for a second."

"I did?"

Lovino stared for a few more seconds and then changed the topic. "I'm going to be up on the crow's nest. If you need me for something, I'm not doing it. _Ciao._"

The Italian climbed up the mast before Antonio could protest. He remembered the first time Lovino joined his crew. Such a spirited, grumpy young man he was. So, so very lazy.

He _still_ was.

"How many years has it been?" Antonio wondered to himself. "I'm getting older by the day . . ."

* * *

_Dear Bastards,_

_I'll be blunt. The Tomato Bastard's old ship was a JOKE. _

_A long time ago it was called something else, but the bastard never mentioned it again. You could almost read its old name from the faded paint, but I can only make out a distinct 'Las' on the hull. Apparently the _Tomato Box Fairy I_ used to be an Armada regulation ship, but since it sank, there was nothing we could do but get a non-regulation ship to take its place._

Tesoro_ isn't all that bad, if you ignore the people aboard. At least we won't be laughed at anymore. Well, we still might, because Antonio is a fucking idiot. Other than that, life's good. I can tolerate it here a bit longer._

_Okay, I'm lost. What other shit am I supposed to write down?_

_Umm . . . Antonio is stupid, Bella is okay, Holland is okay but sometimes he scares me, everyone else is also okay but they never leave me alone about chores._

_ANTONIO YOU DICK I'M NOT DOING THIS LETTER THING ANYMORE I QUIT._

_With hate,_

_Lovino V._

* * *

**I prefer the name Lars for Netherlands, but the stage name Holland is rather fitting, don't you think?  
**

**From here on out, all major participants in this story have been introduced. It's time for the real plot to begin.**

**Until next time. _Adieu~_**


	4. Attacked By Pirates, Saved By A Pirate

The _Britannia _had departed from the River Thames around mid noon with a crew of about 50 members and four tons of cargo onboard. Currently, they were coming up on the mouth of the river junction, where the fresh water led out to the ocean.

Alfred was walking back-and-forth on-deck, playing with the ship's compass. He tapped the instrument on its glass lid, trying to get it working again and watching as the needle jerked, still spinning endlessly. For the past hour it'd been going haywire, and Alfred was worried.

"Doug, sir," he signalled the man at the helm. "Why does the compass spin in every direction?"

"It does that sometimes," replied Doug, the ship's helmsman. Usually he worked lower-decks but occasionally Arthur let him steer the ship when the captain himself was too busy with other matters to run the course. "Don't worry about it. It corrects itself eventually. Besides, I know these waters well. If all goes according to plan, and there's no freak storm, we wouldn't even need it."

Doug was a man in his fifties, an old sailor from the navy, and Alfred trusted him. He seemed to know what he was doing.

"Have you ever been in a storm, Doug?"

"What sort of question is that, boy? Sure I have, but it's not pretty or heroic. You're better off never sailing if you know what's good fer ya. Stick to the land, lad."

"What about pirates?"

"Pirates?" Doug smirked. "Didn't you know? Your old man Kirkland was one before."

"He told me about that," Alfred said. "But wait. He said he was a privateer, not a pirate. Those two aren't the same thing, are they?"

"They're not. But Kirkland _was_ a pirate. I know he's probably been insisting he's pure, but he really is stained dirty. You're goin' to ask him the full story himself. I hafta respect his privacy."

_There's a lot he hasn't been telling me, isn't there?_ Alfred thought.

"Which one is he, though?" he said aloud.

"Do you mean before or now?"

"Now."

"You could say neither. You could also say a privateer, if you take his allegiance into account. Ask me for my opinion, and I'll say he was both. It's a complicated story, son."

There weren't a lot of things that could get Alfred interested or even his _attention_, but his guardian's backstory was intriguing to say the least. Arthur's life was shrouded in mystery, and the Brit wasn't one to reveal his past so easily.

"How come he isn't dead yet, if he was a pirate?" Alfred asked.

"Kirkland is a powerful man. He's also very clever. Ask him for the details; I don't know anything from that point. But yer right. They should have hung him. And yet they didn't."

Doug's attention was trained on to the path before them, and Alfred didn't want to bother him anymore, so he headed inside the ship's cabin compartment. He found Matthew sitting on one of the bunks—the one they shared—scribbling something into a blank paged book.

"I didn't know you kept a diary, Mattie," Alfred teased.

Matthew jumped at the sound of his voice, bumping his head against the upper half of the bunk. He rolled onto the floor, shaking the pain out of his cranium.

"Don't do that, Al!" he said. "At least knock or something!"

"Sorry, sorry." Alfred bent over and picked up Matthew's book. "What do you write in here, anyway? Looks complicated. Well, as complicated as a teenager's diary can get, I suppose . . ." Alfred scratched his head. ". . . Which is _pretty_ complicated, now that I think about it."

"It's not a _diary_, Alfred. Give it." Matthew snatched his not-diary back and showed Alfred its contents. "Well, not technically. It's a dream journal. I've been getting these weird dreams lately, and when I wake up, I have this huge headache. I can't even see what's ahead of me sometimes."

"Really?" Alfred's eyebrows scrunched together in concern. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"I . . . I didn't want to worry you, and it really was nothing." Matthew peered down at his lap, purposely avoiding eye contact with his brother. "I told Arthur about it. He said I shouldn't be concerned with something like this. He insists that it's absolutely trivial."

"But . . . ?" Alfred prompted, leaning forward. "You really don't believe it's _just_ nothing, is it?"

"No," Matthew admitted. "Alfred, when he said it was nothing, I could tell he was lying. I knew he had his reasons, so I didn't pry further."

"Mattie, if this is about you, you have every right to know."

"I understand that, Alfred. He gave me this blank notebook so I could write down what I dream, and later he would look it over to see if there's anything odd about it."

"And is there?"

"Arthur's a seer. He would know, but . . ." Matthew shook his head. "I don't know. I've tried to make sense of it myself, but all I get is glimpses, and I can't even piece them together."

"Mattie, don't stress over it too much. Whatever it is, I'll protect you. We're brothers, right?" Alfred smacked his brother hard in the back, causing Matthew to vault forward. "If you need me, I'll be your hero."

Matthew was surprised for a split second, blinking vacantly into Alfred's blue eyes. And then he smiled. "Thanks, Al."

Alfred chilled out on the bunk for the rest of the afternoon, picking at some loose threads above him. Usually he slept on the top bunk, but Matthew didn't mind him coming down every once in a while.

He drifted in and out of sleep, pondering endlessly about their trip to Italy. It was his first time ever accompanying Arthur overseas to an important meeting. He only attended a few in London, and it was as boring as hell. All he remembered was the incessant droning of old men complaining about their state of affairs and doing absolutely nothing about it. Alfred didn't understand how politics worked.

He was saved these nonsensical speculations by Matthew's entrance. The younger brother had brought them lunch, two bowls of steaming froth on a tray. The both of them gobbled up their stews like hungry hyenas.

"This tastes great!" Alfred said. "Who made it?"

"Francis did, an hour ago. I warmed it up for us."

"I love French cooking. It's the best!"

Matthew agreed, and held up a spoonful of the soup. "This, I can tolerate. Arthur's cooking? Not so much." His expression soured just by thinking about the lethal arsenic Arthur called food.

"Artie's stuff isn't bad; I've had worse," said Alfred.

"I'm glad he's not here to hear us say that," Matthew sighed.

Along with the Arthur's poison cooking, the Brit's pride was equally as extreme. He'd always insisted his cooking was the best and certainly better than the Frogface's. Everyone let him believe it because, face it, the man was delirious.

He had an imaginary friend named 'Flying Mint Bunny' that he assumed to be real, he practiced the dark arts like a religion, and he had a strange fascination with the Carriedos, something that neither Alfred or Matthew could fathom the reasons for. All in all, Arthur Kirkland was not the average Englishman. He was like _the_ Englishman.

"Hey, Mattie, do you have any more of this stuff?" asked Alfred, pointing to his now-empty bowl of soup. "I'm famished, and Arthur's cooking is never eno—"

From the upper decks, the ship's bell sounded. The brothers' heads snapped upwards and then to the door as Leon burst into their cabin, a bundle of firecrackers in his hand.

"We've sighted an uncharted vessel," he reported. "It's heading in our direction. I've warned the captain."

"Understood," said Alfred, getting to his feet. Arthur's endless hours of drilling the boys and forcing them to study was kicking in. "Leon, you're with me. Mattie, warn the men below-decks and ready the cannons. We may need them."

"Roger."

Alfred and Leon rushed up the stairs and emerged on-deck. Doug was busy keeping the ship's trajectory steady. Arthur was at the bow of the ship, peering through a telescope. His mouth was set in a deep frown.

"Arthur, what's going on?" Alfred demanded.

"I'm not entirely sure . . ." the Brit answered vaguely. He gestured upwards. "Climb the mast, Alfred. See if you can see them better up there."

Arthur tossed him the telescope, and Alfred quickly scrambled up the mast, stopping short of the crow's nest. He aimed the telescope towards the approaching ship and found a characteristic mark on its flag. Two swords crossed over the other, parallel to a weird crest—a large fish of some kind, it seemed . . .

Alfred grabbed at a nearby rope and swung down onto the deck. "It's not from the navy. It doesn't look foreign either. I think I've seen that flag in a book somewhere."

"They're pirates," Arthur immediately said. No, it wasn't that he was confident about his claim. He was _certain_ of it.

"Are you sure? It's not just a merchant or fishermen's ship or something?" said Alfred.

"This far out at sea? I don't think so, lad."

And it struck Alfred at that point that Arthur knew exactly what he was doing. _Because he'd been in this position before._

"Keep her steady, Doug!" Arthur barked toward the stern of the ship. "We're going to sail past them if we could. _Britannia_ can outrun them if things amount to a chase."

"Aye, Captain!"

"What about us?" asked Leon. "What do we do?"

"Did you load the gunpowder?"

"The cannons have firing capabilities." Leon held up his firecrackers. "And I also have some explosives at my disposal."

"Good, that's good. Alfred—"

"Huh?"

Arthur tossed him his pistol, and Alfred barely caught it, juggling the firearm clumsily between hands. "This might come in handy."

"What about you?"

The Brit drew his sword. "This is all I need."

Alfred was once again about to question Arthur's judgment, but then he reminded himself that this was nothing new to the Englishman. This was like second nature to him. On the ship, Arthur looked almost at home, peaceful. This was where he belonged.

He wasn't about to admit it, but the prospect frightened Alfred. Was this really the Arthur he knew?

"I'm here, I'm here!" Francis scrambled out from the lower decks. "I'm sorry, I overslept! I didn't hear the bell!"

"Well, it's not like we really needed you, Frog."

Ouch.

Francis produced his own blade. "I can fight," he protested. "Well enough, anyway. I'm a bit rusty."

The pirate ship was less than a distance away, now. They could almost make out every individual face of the crew members onboard.

"Do we have to fight?" asked Alfred.

"If it amounts to that," Arthur said, green eyes luminous and calculating. "Although, I'd doubt it. Seeing the ship's captain on deck will definitely give them confidence. They won't make the first move."

"So what then?"

"We're going to talk it out like the gentleman we are. Simple as that."

Alfred highly doubted that outcome, but he trusted Arthur's shrewdness. The Brit just seemed so . . . dauntless. What if things went wrong? What then?

_Don't think like that, Alfred!_ he mentally slapped himself. _We've got a tough crew. We have weapons, explosives . . . and we have Arthur._

"It's only a few hours until the Mediterranean Sea," he heard Arthur mutter. "What are the chances of an encounter way out here?"

The rest of his musings was cut off by a shout from across the water. A sudden pick-up of wind muffled the other ship's demands. It didn't escape Leon's sharp ears, though.

"They want the cargo we have aboard," the Asian recited. "Also . . ."

He glanced at Francis, and suddenly everyone got the message.

"What the bloody hell did you do!" Arthur yelled, pointing his sword at the Frenchman's throat.

Francis laughed nervously. "What makes you think I did something?"

"Who are those people?" Arthur continued to demand.

"Er, I . . . Ahem, that's a bit complicated. You see, the reason for _how_ I got into your country in the first place—"

"Fuck you."

"_Désolé!_ I didn't know they would pursue me this relentlessly! Please don't hurt me?"

Arthur chuckled darkly. "Oh-ho. Trust me. We're _getting_ there."

"What are we going to do?" Leon asked calmly, before the argument could escalate to a straight-out friendly fire.

"Well, that's easy," said Arthur, rage boiling beneath his calm exterior. "We're going to hand this Frog over to them."

"What? No! After all that we've been through? Arthur, _s'il vous plait_!"

"This is all your fault, isn't it? Discuss this with them and then we'll see if you get to keep your life."

"So cruel . . ."

"If you don't, you're dead anyway."

"ARE YOU LADIES DONE TALKIN'?!" yelled a gruff voice over the waters. "WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO THIS CALMLY OR WOULD YOU PREFER BLOODSHED INSTEAD? WE TAKE NO PRISONERS!"

Arthur bit back an angry growl and snatched Francis by the collar, shoving him towards the portside. "_Speak with them._"

Francis was too terrified to protest. He waved hesitantly at the enemy ship, hoping for dear life that they didn't recognize him.

God did not answer his prayers.

"Hey, it's that wench from the other day!" said the enemy ship's captain. The vessel was close enough to make out the name: the _Sturgeon_. "And apparently she's not a wench! You're going to pay for what you did, tricking us and taking advantage of us like that . . . We were nearly executed after getting caught by the authorities!"

"You deserved it!" Francis shot back.

Arthur kicked him. "_Not. Helping._"

"Look, we don't have any cargo or whatever it is you want! Try another ship!"

"Oh, really?" The enemy ship captain directed his next question at Arthur. "If you hand the man over, we'll leave!"

"That's it?" Arthur's face brightened. "Deal!"

"No deal, no deal!" Francis faced his comrade. "What the hell, _rosbif?_ How can you just sell me out like that?"

"_How_? I think the better question is _how can I not._ You're the cause of all our problems. With you off the boat, we'll sail peacefully to Italy without any worry of pirates. I don't even know why I allowed you on board. You were forty minutes late today."

The enemy ship captain cleared his throat awkwardly. The two rivals turned to face them once more.

"As much as I hate to say it," Arthur bit out, "we can't hand him over to you. My apologies."

"Well, that's such a shame! You know what happens now, yes?"

"Let them come," Arthur ordered under his breath, loud enough for his crew members to hear but not enough for the enemy ship to notice. "Leon, ready your explosives for when they swing over. Alfred, I need you to create an opening for me."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm thinking of boarding their ship."

"What? But that's suicide!"

"I know, but we don't have much of a choice at this point. Are you with me or not?"

Alfred swallowed, reluctant. "You're the captain. I have to follow your orders, right?"

"Glad you understand, lad. Frog, you head downstairs and handle the cannons with Matthew. Fire until the ship is immobile but not destroyed. I want to set a nice example for these youngsters."

"For what?"

"To show them not to mess with a former mercenary."

Arthur's last set of words spurred the crew into motion. They manned their respective stations, some ready to board the other ship, others defending the upper deck. Alfred stood behind his caretaker, loading the pistol he was given.

The enemy ship itself was moving closer to them, its men prepared to swarm their vessel.

Not if Arthur could help it.

"You have a plan, right?" said Alfred.

Arthur dipped his head from side-to-side, weighing his chances. "Hmm, not really."

"What, you're just going to charge in there without a moment's notice?!"

"Oh, hush. It's not like you wouldn't do the same."

_Okay, that much is true,_ Alfred admitted.

"I was planning on killing the captain of that boat wreck myself, actually," Arthur said.

"What?! You're going to k—kill him?"

Arthur was quiet.

"It's the only way," he said. "What other choice do I have? Let them kill us, or kill them first? I swear, one death is all it takes. If I kill their captain, they'll submit to me under my orders. There's no other option, Alfred." The Brit locked gazes with him, green eyes desperate. "You understand, don't you?"

". . . You promise it's only one life?"

"I swear it."

And Alfred knew he'd keep it.

The enemy ship was so close now—about five boat lengths stretched between them. The men were preparing to swing over to their vessel. Arthur signalled his crew to do the same. _Britannia_ did not resist; Doug kept their distance at a relative constant. It was almost as if the _Britannia_ was inviting the invaders onto her decks.

The _Sturgeon_ drew nearer. The distance closed rapidly. The enemy vessel drifted beside _Britannia_, and for a moment, it was as if both ships stopped moving, and it was the sea below them that created the illusion of movement.

The first man swung forward. This single action sparked a revolution of events: the _Britannia_ crew became locked with the _Sturgeon's_ crew in midair combat. A few of the enemy men swung too close and Leon let loose his round of explosives, the firecrackers exploding in their faces.

Arthur chose a specific rope near the bow of the ship so he could reach the captain's cabin easier. Alfred stood behind him, shooting at anyone who got too close, clearing the path for Arthur to swing.

"Alfred—" Arthur stood at the edge of his ship, looking back at his charge. His face looked like he wanted to say many things but knew he only had a short period of time to get his message across. "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes—"

Alfred shook his head. "Don't say it. Just go."

From below decks, the cannons rang in repetitive succession, smashing the hull of the _Sturgeon_ to bits. That was his cue—Arthur faced ahead and launched himself off the _Britannia_.

He intercepted another pirate to which he retaliated with a simple swish of his blade, sending the man was tumbling into the sea. He switched the sword into his other hand and helped another man fall to his doom.

The journey seemed to have lasted forever. Finally Arthur arrived at the other side, just in time for the rope supporting him to snap. He experienced freefall for a split second before catching ahold of convenient a ledge. Sheathing his blade for easier maneuvering, the ex-privateer hung on to the side of ship and shimmied toward the ladder, eventually pulling himself up onto the deck.

It was utter chaos, for the _Sturgeon_ and for his own ship. The _Sturgeon_, however, wasn't equipped with long-ranged weapons. The obvious loser was evident at this point, but they still weren't out of the game.

Another set of cannonballs tore at the ship; the momentum of the swaying vessel caught Arthur off-guard, and he stumbled back-and-forth, trying to reattain his lost balance. He briefly registered a moving shadow looming over him, with a malicious intent to kill.

Arthur knocked aside a dagger aimed for his throat and grabbed at the owner's collar. "Where is he?" he demanded into the poor pirate's face. "Where is your captain?"

"Like I'll tell you, you eyebrow frea—"

A grave mistake. Arthur threw him overboard and stormed to the centre of the fray.

_No one_ insulted his eyebrows without paying retribution.

"COME OUT, YOU COWARD! SHOW YOUR FACE!"

Announcing his presence probably _wasn't_ the best idea. Arthur was swarmed the second he finished speaking. Luckily he was adept in kicking ass.

All the Briton did was dodge and shove pirates into their crew members, allowing them to cut each other up. He kicked the pile of dazed bodies right off the ship. He couldn't be bothered with them; he was already on a tight schedule.

Arthur wrenched open the captain's cabin door, scouring the interior for any offending wanker.

"Where did you go . . . ?" The Brit peered out of the corner of his eyes, sensing a presence behind him. He gripped at a dagger hidden up his sleeve, hoping the other wouldn't notice.

"Well, well. If it isn't Admiral Kirkland."

Arthur felt the tip of a blade press against his neck. He straightened involuntarily, hissing as the cold metal sent a chill down his spine. He slowly held his hands up.

"You know, the minute I saw you, I didn't recognize you," continued the voice. "But up close I can see you're that famous Kirkland every pirate is talking about. _The_ _High King of the Seven Seas_, they said. And now I get to see you with my very own eyes. You're not very impressive in person. You're just sad."

"You don't have to do this," Arthur started.

"Oh, I believe I do."

The stranger marched up to Arthur's back. The Brit could feel him breathing down his neck. His lips pulled into a grimace.

"Two things before you proceed," Arthur said blatantly. "Firstly, it's _retired _Admiral. Secondly_ . . . _your breath is absolutely putrid. Please look into it."

Arthur slid out his dagger and stabbed backward at his captor. The enemy captain moved fast, but he didn't emerge fully unscathed.

The mystery captain checked at his wound, his forearm now covered in crimson liquid. A slit about four inches long split apart in his skin. "You think you're so smart, do you, _Mr. High King?_"

Arthur glared. "I told you—I'm _r__etired_."

"Like that makes a difference. After today, you'll be dead and you wouldn't have to worry about retirement anymore."

Arthur could clearly see who he was dealing with. The man before him was a whole decade older than he was, with a black beard stippled with grey. He had an ugly scar running down his right eye, and his upper teeth were covered in silver and gold caps. His captain's coat was tattered, but Arthur recognized it. The faded rank insignia revealed the man as an ex-commander of the British Royal Navy.

"You're in the British Fleet," he said in mild surprise. "Rather, you were. You're a Deserter."

"I'm nothing like you."

"Oh no," Arthur chuckled. "Most definitely not. First and foremost, you're a coward for resorting to this sort of profession. Just because I've done it doesn't mean it's the right choice."

"I don't need a bloody lecture from you."

Arthur went on without stopping, "Secondly, I keep telling you, I'm _retired_. There are far better ways than simply desert, my friend. Take my advice, er . . ."

"Davis," the man growled, a vein ticking in his temple.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, recognition sparking at the farthest recesses of his memory. "Davis, hm? I think I remember you . . . Commander Adam Davis, was it?"

Davis clearly hadn't counted on Arthur recognizing who he was. He lips pulled into an ugly sneer. "Shut up."

Davis advanced on Arthur and brought his sword down in a single fell swoop. Arthur deflected it easily and ducked under Davis' big build, kicking him in the back of the knee and sending the man vaulting into the cabin wall. Davis swung around, growling in humiliation, setting up another strike. Arthur saw this coming and dropped down low, the tip of Davis' blade venturing mere inches away from his face. Arthur rolled to the side just as Davis' foot pounded the floorboards that he'd just occupied seconds before.

_That was way too close. It's clear that I'm the better swordsmen, but Davis has ten years on me, at least. He has experience. He's had time to gather dirty tricks._

Arthur surged to his feet and dodged another one of Davis' strikes. The man's sword bounced off a shelf and scattered all the instruments onto the floor. A glass globe shattered, spewing shards of broken glass in every direction.

"What are you doing?" Davis shouted. "Draw your weapon already! You can't dodge me forever!"

Arthur's eyes flickered to the door. _I can't fight in here. I need open space._

"Why the hell are you hiding that man?" Davis demanded, circling Arthur, who was doing the same.

"Excuse me?" said Arthur. His small dagger was held out in a defensive gesture, ready to block if Davis made the first move. But he wasn't going to draw his blade. He wasn't going to give Davis the satisfaction.

"Stop stalling. I'm talking about the Frenchman."

It slowly dawned on him. ". . . Oh. No, you have the wrong idea." Arthur chuckled. "I'm not hiding him or protecting him or anything of the sort. Actually, you can have him if you want."

Davis appeared unconvinced. "Really."

"Yes, but that's only if you manage to defeat me. If not, Francis Bonnefoy, unfortunately, is staying on my ship."

Davis shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. "I don't understand you, Kirkland. Why do you do what you do?"

"That's a good question. I've been asking myself that for years. Frankly, I don't understand me either."

Arthur broke away from the staring contest and rushed toward the entrance. Davis was quick to react, swinging his blade at the blond's face, but Arthur, being more agile, slid to his knees and emerged back on his feet. He wrenched open the door, eyes still trained on Davis, and without looking back, elbowed a nearby pirate in the face. Arthur stepped over the unconscious body, dagger pointed at Davis. He backed out of the cabin slowly.

"Is this what a Pirate King is supposed to do?" Davis taunted, mirroring Arthur's actions by taking steps forward. "Retreat? You're a coward, Kirkland, just like how you reacted to facing the Spaniards!"

The word 'Spaniards' brought Arthur's attention back to the present. "What was that?" he said quietly.

"I watched you! You fucking turned tail and ran that day!" Davis spat. "And you know what? No one else ever had the bloody choice! Only you did! Do you know what that makes the rest of us?!"

Arthur continued backing away until he stood completely out in the open. Davis emerged a second later, a smirk upon his crude face.

"I bet you never told anyone this. The type of man you are, Kirkland . . . it's the kind you've fabricated with lies and tales. But that's not you, is it? You're a monster. A lonely, misunderstood outcast." Davis jutted his chin towards the _Britannia_. "Imagine if _they_ found out. That blue-eyed boy back there. What if I told him how you're the _wonderful_ and _celebrated_ Pirate King?"

Arthur's patience abruptly snapped and suddenly he had Davis pinned to the ground, his sword drawn, the blade tip sinking into the ugly lard's neck. Arthur's eyes were glowing with absolute malice.

"I am _not_ the Pirate King anymore," the Brit stated with deathly calm. "I regret what happened that day. I regretted ever leaving the battlefield, leaving my comrades to die. But I didn't have a choice, and that's something you will never understand. I am who I am, now. No one else. Don't speak as if you know my position."

"What position?" Davis said, ignoring the sword resting dangerously against his neck. "WHAT POSITION?! All you ever do is flaunt your status around, and suddenly everyone is bloody praising you. No one else ever had the privilege of being recognized. Why should a noble like you ever care? What the hell makes _you_ so worthy of being the King?!"

Every single crew member aboard the _Sturgeon_, including _Britannia's_ men, was frozen in mid-combat, watching on as Davis and Kirkland fought a battle of wits. There wasn't an evident winner yet, and so far the captains were keen to just insult the hell out of each other and hope one backs down.

"Sir," said one of the pirates.

"Don't—come any closer," Arthur warned, a slight threat laced in his words. "One step inside this five metre radius and I chop your captain to bits. He's in my mercy now."

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge," Davis returned, and flung Kirkland off of him, kicking him to the side.

Arthur fell into a nearby pirate, knocking him down. The pirate's opponent, a crew-mate of the _Britannia's_, helped Arthur to his feet. The Brit swayed a little before collapsing to his knees, clutching at his side in pain. Arthur blinked as his surroundings blurred and tilted.

Davis threw a small dagger into the air and caught it. "I'm not stupid, Kirkland. You didn't even notice when I snuck this gem off of you. How does it feel to be betrayed by your own blade?"

Arthur stabbed his sword into the deck and pulled himself up. Granted, he hadn't anticipated Davis to get the better of him in this fashion, but it still wounded his pride a little. He leaned against his weapon for support, staring at Davis in the utmost pity.

"I told you," he said. "You would never understand. Being appointed the High King of the Seven Seas isn't something to celebrate about. All you receive in return is a deep, deep sorrow. I had to pay a heavy price for my title. You should consider yourself fortunate that you haven't seen the horrors I've seen."

"It's too late now," said Davis. "I'll end this—once and for all."

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "It _is_ the end. For you."

"What? Have you seen yourself lately?"

"The dagger's poisoned."

The realization must have triggered the venom coursing inside Davis, because suddenly he was on his knees, clawing at his throat. He wheezed out a few words, but they were unrecognizable.

"H-how . . . ?"

Arthur released his sword from the deck and marched toward Davis. "How, you ask? This is just one of the many things I have to sacrifice. Consider it my price to pay."

Davis' eyes were wide with confusion and denial.

"It's fine now," Arthur assured. "I'll end your suffering."

Davis started backing away, but his limbs had constricted and were no longer functioning. He fell back, his head hitting the deck with a loud _thunk_. Knowing that their captain's fate was imminent, the pirates dropped their weapons and surrendered.

"I'd said that one death was all it would take. One death. That was what I promised him." Arthur raised his blade. "And honestly, I'm glad he's not here to see what happens."

He brought the weapon down on Davis' heart, and as the blade sunk into the flesh, Arthur closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the hilt, murmuring prayers under his breath. The last remnants of Davis' life ebbed away, and Arthur once again experienced that same emotion—that endless, bitter sorrow.

At that instant, Alfred swung over onto the ship and landed heavily on the deck, ending the silence caused by the death of its captain. Arthur snapped out of his grievances and dislodged his weapon from Davis. He quickly emptied his face of emotion and straightened, angling his body away from his charge.

"What—what happened?" Alfred asked. "Did you do it?"

Arthur nodded. "It is done. Let's go back."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Alfred held his hands up for a time-out. "What just happened? Why are you . . . ?"

Arthur looked down and removed his hand from his torso. His entire shirt was soaked with blood.

"You okay?" Alfred said, concern written all over his face.

"It's fine," Arthur said offhandedly. "I'm immune to most poisons."

"Hold on. There was _poison_?!"

"Let's go."

"Wait!" said one of the pirates. "You can't just leave!"

"And why not," Arthur growled back at him.

The pirate looked down, refusing to make eye-contact. "Well, uh, since you defeated our cap'n, it basically makes ye the commander of the ship now, so . . ."

"I have no interest in taking command of your ship."

"But—!"

"Here's a suggestion," Arthur rebuked, "consider it the first and last order from me—sail your ship back to the mainland, sell it, commit yourselves to an abbey, and die knowing you could have done something better with your lives. Never show your faces on the sea again. Understood?"

The pirates saluted. "S-sir!"

"Good."

Arthur marched to the ropes with Alfred close behind him. As if remembering something, he halted, turned, walked back to Davis' body, and took off his captain's hat, setting it gently down on man's chest.

"You want my title that badly?" he murmured so quietly, even Alfred had trouble hearing. "Then take it. You've certainly paid a heavy price and now you're entitled to it."

Both he and his crew returned to the _Britannia._ As their ship sailed away, leaving the _Sturgeon_ behind in the dust, Alfred tried to process what he'd just seen. He consulted the event with Matthew, but the softer-spoken brother insisted to not bother Arthur about it.

"There's more to Arthur than we imagined, but we shouldn't pry. There are many things we aren't proud of, but you don't see Arthur nosing his way into our business," said Matthew. "Besides, I'm just glad we walked away with so little casualties. Things could have been a lot worse if Arthur didn't decide to take down Captain Davis."

"Hm, I guess you're right," Alfred admitted reluctantly.

Later on in the night he knocked on Arthur's cabin door and found the Brit drinking wine with Francis. Arthur's torso was all bandaged up, his captain's coat draped over his shoulders. Evidently he wasn't poisoned, seeing as he wasn't dead, but the pain was still there on his face. Any way Arthur moved, he grimaced as his injury stretched or tensed the wrong way.

Alfred didn't like seeing him like that—seeing him all vulnerable. It was almost as if Arthur was forcing himself to remain strong and convicted in the face of danger, while simultaneously breaking down when he thought no one was looking. The fact of the matter was, Arthur appeared so sad and haunted when he was alone, and that made things all the more depressing. It hurt Alfred just thinking about it.

"You were a real hero today, Artie," Alfred said, grinning. "It was awesome watching you kick pirate ass."

"You don't need to force yourself to smile, Alfred," said Arthur. "I know the revelation hit you hard."

Alfred recoiled as Arthur so easily figured him out. He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his eyes away from his guardian. "Nah, bro. I understand why you killed Davis. You were taking pity on him, weren't you? You knew that if the navy ever caught him, they would execute him without a moment's notice. You wanted to end his suffering before he was granted the humiliation. Deep down, I always knew what kind of man you are, Artie. You're not a bad person."

_You don't know the true story, Alfred._

"Yes," Arthur said. "I suppose you do. Thank you, by the way. For having my back."

"No prob, man! We're family; I kind of don't have a choice. Hahahahaha . . . ha-ha . . . ha."

"You should go to sleep now, _oui_?" suggested Francis, smiling at his awkwardness. "We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow. We reach Italy around noon, so rest up tonight."

"Naw, I'm good!"

"Alfred," said Arthur, gazing pointedly at his ward. "To bed. Now."

"'Kay." Alfred hung his head and shuffled out of the cabin. Just before he closed it, though, he stopped at the entryway and stuck his head back in the room. "Hey, Artie . . . I know you're probably feeling terrible about taking that man's life, but I'm glad you reacted the way you did. It shows you're human. It was nice of you to let those pirates go like that."

Arthur blinked in confusion. "What are you saying, Alfred?"

". . . I had a hero once."

"Huh?"

Alfred shut the door.

Arthur turned to Francis. "What was _that_ about?"

"Clueless as ever, Arthur," said Francis, swirling his wine glass and taking a sip.

"No, seriously—what?"

"I'll never tell you."

"You bloody frog! You know, I still haven't gotten you back for whatever you did which triggered the pirate attack today!"

Francis laughed and took another sip. "Ah~ Classic French wine. Mind telling me why you have this aboard?"

Arthur spluttered incoherently. "That—that's . . . D-don't ignore the subject!"

Out in the hallway, Alfred leaned against the wooden walls, sensing the ship underneath his feet creak and rock. He listened to Arthur and Francis' banter inside, feeling at a loss of what to do.

It went without saying that Arthur had been incredible today, taking charge without any hesitation, single-handedly fighting off those pirates and defeating their captain. It was so brave of him to withstand the risk of poison and at the same time act with such courtesy towards his enemies.

Who, exactly, was Arthur Kirkland?

There were so many questions Alfred had about him, like what went on during his days as a privateer/pirate (Alfred didn't even know which anymore). The closer and closer he got to the truth and the more he learned about Arthur, the less he knew about the Brit. Every answer he received until now just brought up more mysteries. It was a never-ending cycle of questions.

Alfred knew close to nothing about Arthur. Sure, they'd known each other for many years, and they lived together, but now . . . Now, Arthur seemed more like a stranger than ever.

Something had clearly went down on that ship, and even though Alfred hadn't been there for the most part to personally witness what happened, he'd seen enough to tell that Adam Davis had struck a nerve in Arthur. A very . . . _sensitive_ nerve. What was Arthur not sharing with him?

_He thinks I'm stupid and naive, doesn't he? He thinks I wouldn't be able to understand. This sucks._

Alfred pushed off the wall and dragged himself back to his room. He figured Matthew would have been asleep by now, but he was surprisingly awake in bed, lying on his stomach, a candlelight going at the side, with his dream journal in his hands. The quiet young man was furiously scribbling something down on the paper.

"Hey, Mattie," Alfred said, smiling tiredly. "What's up?"

Matthew muttered something to himself and continued to write.

Alfred sat down on his bunk, peering over his brother's shoulder. "Mattie? Wat'cha writin'? Hmm . . . What? An attack?"

"Go away, Alfred. I'm busy," said Matthew distractedly.

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

Matthew placed his quill down and left the journal out to dry. "It's complicated."

"Try me."

"Look, I don't even know what I saw, but I dreamt an attack on . . . on the conference being held in Italy. Afterwards some treasure got stolen and . . . I don't know! I just don't know! I'm trying to piece it together, but—"

"Mattie!" Alfred said in alarm. "Dude, Mattie, calm down. Get a hold of yourself. It's okay! You don't have to think so hard. It's nothing."

"It's not nothing, Al! I know what I saw and—and it seemed so . . . real." Matthew sighed, rubbing at his eyes. Alfred noticed the telltale signs of bags under his violet orbs. "No, you're right. Yeah. It was probably nothing. Just your typical nightmare."

"Y—you sure?"

"No, but I don't want to worry Arthur anymore. You saw what happened today. He's carrying a lot on his shoulders already. I don't want to burden him further."

"Is that what you think you are?" Alfred gripped Matthew's shoulders. "Mattie, you are not a burden. You're family. Family sticks together."

Matthew was quiet.

"Do you want me to get you anything?" Alfred asked.

"No thanks." Matthew removed Alfred's hands off of him. "Just some sleep. G'night, Al."

He blew the candle out.

Alfred sat in the darkness for a good minute before moving to his top bunk. There he lay down, thinking about the day's events, until the sun rose up the next morning.

* * *

_Cher lecteurs,  
_

_I think I ought to explain myself._

_Arthur and I have had many encounters in the past, and the majority of them weren't friendly. Therefore, he felt the need to place a restraining order on the beautiful moi. Let's just say I did not respect that wish. _

_Getting into England was difficult. There are literally posters with my fabulous visage on the walls, with bounties attached to them. I knew I needed some help getting past security, and what better way to sneak into the country using the aid of pirates?_

_Of course there was a price, but I'm sure those men wouldn't mind. What's wrong with spreading a little love once in a while? Arthur's country seems deprived of it. Many would call it 'being taken advantage of', but they really do not know the true meaning of those words. I come from the country of love, mon ami. I would know._

_Naturally the pirates were not happy. They hunted me down while I escaped away on rosbif's ship. It was not a total success, seeing as they did track our ship and proceed to attack us. But due to Arthur's intervention, everything is fine. Even if he wasn't there to fight those pirates off, I had a plan B. Another reason why the brutes wanted my head so badly: I've got some serious dish on them that can ruin their reputation for good. Thank God it didn't amount to that; I generally abhor gossip. _

_I'll never admit any of this happened, of course. I'll burn this letter right after I write this._

_Restez éternelle,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

* * *

**I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter, because it certainly took a while. But I'm happy with it and that's all that matters. ^.^  
**

**Leave a review, let me know what you think.**

**Next chapter: Welcome to Italy! Antonio has a surprise run-in with Feliciano, and another too-close-for-comfort encounter with the Kirklands.**


	5. Welcome To Italy!

**Moscow, Russia**

Ivan was being bored to death.

He wished it could have been literal so he didn't have to deal with this boredom. Being Lord of Moscow had its perks, and excitement wasn't one of them. Usually he sat at his desk signing papers and scaring his underlings. Other than that, his life was pretty eventless.

He sat in his great chair for a few moments, pondering about nothing in particular, the rhythmic tapping of his fingernails on the armrest filling the silence. A jolting _crack_ resounded through the air and broke him out of his thoughts. Ivan turned around.

The door of his study crept open. "Brother . . ."

"Natalia," he began cautiously. "I thought I locked the door."

"The lock was keeping our love apart, so I took the liberty to remove it."

Ivan resisted the urge to shiver. "Is there another reason why you're here?"

"Yes. Davis is dead."

Now that was news. Ivan faced his incestuous sister and demanded further details.

"That's a shame," he stated after her explanation. "I really thought he was going to get the job done this time. Employing an Englishman seemed like a smart move. Kirkland would more easily trust him, seeing as they both come from the same line of profession . . . At least, that's what I thought."

"Should I tell Lukas to keep watching their ship?"

"There's no need. I'm sure Carriedo would take care of that for us." A manic smile crept across Ivan's features. "Tell Mathias to initiate plan B."

Natalia frowned. "He would most likely resist. Last time he even managed to injure you."

"Yes, but _unlike_ last time, I have leverage against him. If he makes even one move, I will kill Tino. It's as simple as that. Berwald is already at his wit's end, and he knows he cannot oppose me. It'll only be time until Mathias caves in, too."

"And Lukas?"

"Don't worry about Lukas. He would do anything for his brother. As long as I have his magic, nothing else matters."

Natalia nodded slowly, appearing uncertain. "Yes, brother . . ."

Ivan quirked an eyebrow. "Hm? Is there something wrong, Natalia?"

"I'm only concerned. What if Katyusha finds out what we're planning?"

"She won't. I have Toris and the others on that. If the Scandinavians do their part, I'm sure that we'll all be blessed with quite an entertaining show. All we have to do now, is wait."

* * *

**Salerno, Italy**

"They're late."

The three of them sat in the foyer of the conference building. Feliciano was playing with a bud of roses he'd retrieved from a vase, Ludwig leaned against a sofa, and Gilbert reclined lazily on another.

Feliciano placed the roses back in their place and smiled reassuringly at his friend. "I'm sure they'll arrive soon, Ludwig. It's too early to worry."

"Too early?! They're _late_! It's one or the other!"

"You need to take a chill pill, Luds," said Gilbert. "The meeting doesn't start until the evening."

"It's 5 PM!"

"See? Plenty of time."

Ludwig began pacing. "They were supposed to be here _this morning_. Did they get held up? What could have happened? What am I saying? A lot of things can happen on the sea . . . Pirates for one, and there are always likely chances of a storm . . ."

"Gilbert's right, Ludwig," Feliciano interrupted. "I'm sure they're fine."

The blond-haired German spun around to face his friend. "This meeting is very important, Feliciano. Arthur Kirkland is more than just a friend or ally—he is an influential man among his ranks. Hell, Great Britain itself is a powerful nation that shouldn't be trifled with, and the only way to ensure a peaceful relationship is to make sure we are all on the same page. Besides, our families have been allies for centuries. It wouldn't make sense to suddenly cancel an annual meeting, would it?"

"Guess not," said Feliciano. "By the way, do we have pasta?"

Ludwig sighed at the unsurprising, random change of topic. "No, we don't."

"Can we get some?"

"Well, there is no point in arguing with you when it comes to pasta, is there?"

"_Va bene! Andiamo!_"

"What, now?"

"_Si_, why not?"

"We still have to wait for Kirkland to arrive!" Ludwig said, looking at Feliciano incredulously. "Did you forget that fact after so many seconds?"

Feliciano shrugged. "Who cares if they're late? They'll show up, right? Besides, I'm hungry."

Ludwig tapped his foot impatiently, trying to stem his building annoyance. "Feliciano . . ."

"We were kind of late too," Gilbert pointed out. He was now munching down on grapes like some Roman emperor. "We got held up by that envoy, remember? And those bandits. That's why we arrived only yesterday."

The day before _had_ been hectic. Clearing up the mess with the envoys from Austria had been tiring. A meeting had been rescheduled from three months to three weeks.

Later on into the evening, their carriage had been attacked by bandits and although Gilbert dealt with the problem efficiently, all three of them, including the carriage driver, had been forced to sleep on the forest floor due to the lack of a working carriage. The nearest inn was at least another hour's ride away, and it wasn't like they were going to start hiking in the waning daylight.

Gilbert bragged about his awesomeness throughout the night, and Ludwig eventually fell asleep to a large migraine. Feliciano was out like a light the minute his head hit the pillow.

The morning after that, they hitched a ride on a caravan heading into Salerno, and walked the rest of the way to the conference hall.

All in all, everyone was exhausted from the trip but at least they arrived on time. Relatively.

In Ludwig's defense, Arthur Kirkland owned a _ship_, and yet he still had the nerve to be late.

"This is different," said Ludwig. "If they don't get here in thirty minutes at the least—"

"Well, the attendants will inform us if they've arrived, _si_? How about we head into town and enjoy ourselves a little?" Feliciano suggested.

"It can't hurt," Gilbert inputted. "I mean, we may not have the chance to in the future—we should at least take advantage of this calm while we still can."

Ludwig pursed his lips, reluctant against the decision.

Gilbert egged him on. "C'mon, Luds! It'll be awesome! We hardly ever visit Italy—the least you can do is enjoy the scenery!"

A few more seconds of silence. Ludwig slouched. "Gah, fine. Honestly, you two are impossible."

"Yay!" Feliciano cheered, and was out the door in a flash.

"Feliciano, wait—! Oh, what's the use? Let's go, _bruder_."

Gilbert launched his grapes aside and jumped to his feet. "Great. Maybe I can get some girls—I mean, er, greet the citizens of this town."

"Behave, _bruder_," Ludwig chided, displeased. "You need to set an example for our people. We are guests in this country and as such, we should act with courtesy."

"Courtesy? This _is_ courtesy. And for your information, in Italy, _everyone_ flirts with everyone. Why should I be denied such privilege? Honestly, Luds, you really need to get out more."

Ludwig shook his head at his brother's ridiculously odd choice of words as they headed downhill.

Their conference hall was situated farther inland from the docks below. Salerno was a city filled with the arts, with winding zigzags of streets and buildings piling higher and higher up the hill from the coast. Beautiful, as a word to describe this region, was an understatement.

Being an artistic city, not many were out on the streets; most were just keen on spending time indoors to study, paint or draw. The few that were outside were musicians. Salerno was overall a warm, friendly community, and it wasn't as suffocating as the larger cities, such as Rome.

Ludwig stood at the very edge of the road and immediately spotted the coastline. It was quite a nice view from all the way up where he was standing. One could practically see every rooftop from this angle.

"Don't just stand there and gawk, Luds!" Gilbert called. "Feliciano might get lost or something!"

"Oh hell," Ludwig muttered, realizing his brother was right.

He ran down the road, hoping Feliciano was heading in the direction of the market. Usually people milled about at the market at this hour. As chatty as Feliciano was, he would definitely head toward large sources of commotion. If not, all Ludwig had to do was track down a pasta vendor. He was a hundred percent certain that he'd find Feliciano there.

On another note, of the portions of the city Ludwig did see, every single corner had at least one pasta joint. It was fantastical in his opinion, but perhaps it was normal for the natives of the country.

Of course, pasta wasn't the only thing Ludwig was counting on to help him find Feliciano. As Gilbert so graciously put it before, "In Italy, _everyone_ flirts with everyone."

They found Feliciano right at home, chatting with a pair of girls.

"Hey, guys," he said, and turned to the girls: one a brunette, the other a blonde. "Let me introduce you. These two Germans are my friends, Ludwig and Gilbert. Say hi."

Gilbert slid right in between them. "Why hello, ladies."

Ludwig face palmed. "A pleasure. Please ignore my brother."

The two girls giggled.

"_Ciao_, I'm Marie," said one of them, the brunette. "My friend here is Diana."

"Feliciano, we thought you'd gotten lost," Ludwig said.

"How could I? I've been here before on diplomatic trips. I know this city like I know my pasta."

"Hey, do you know where the market's at?" Gilbert asked. "I could use some food right now."

"Sure, follow me!"

Feliciano waved goodbye to the girls before setting off with his friends. The citizens of the town were friendly and said their 'good days'. Ludwig didn't understand the majority of the Italian they spoke to him, but their happy mood was obvious. He bid his own hellos while Gilbert walked beside him shooting finger guns at random pedestrians, particularly of the female variety. Ludwig resisted the urge to face palm. Again. He may as well have had a permanent hand print etched on to his face by this point.

Not surprisingly, the market was placed near the ships, where cargo could be unloaded and sold more efficiently. The square was wild with activity. Shops of many varieties lined the perimetre like a fortress wall: bookstores, carpentry shops (that probably only sold sculpting tools), bakeries, apothecaries, and a barber shop, too.

"This is, like, awesome," Gilbert said and chased after a food vendor.

"_Bruder_, don't go running off . . . _Scheiße._ Feliciano, stay here and hang about. I'm going to make sure Gilbert doesn't cause any trouble."

Feliciano saluted with his left hand. "Sir!"

Ludwig internally sighed. When they were younger, he'd taught Feliciano to salute properly, but the habit never caught on. Since the Italian was dominantly left-handed, and he often acted with thinking, Ludwig had long learned to look past this breaking of the rules, but being slightly OCD, this still irked him to no end.

"See you later, Feliciano. Don't get in trouble."

"I'm a diplomat, remember? I'd love to . . . but that isn't an option anymore."

Feliciano had said that with an apologetic smile, but there was darkness laced between.

_That's right,_ Ludwig thought._ Even if he is a part of the government, he's their puppet now. As much as he gets to travel, he has virtually no freedom to do as he pleases. I see why he's as cheerful as he is. Feliciano . . . you really are strong, aren't you?_

"Stay safe," Ludwig said, before running after his brother.

Feliciano rocked on his heels, pivoting his direction. "Hmm . . . where should I go now? There are so many stores and vendors!" He spotted a grain and vegetable stand. Suddenly an idea came to mind. "I know. I'm going to make pasta tonight!"

He had to wait a bit before making his purchase because another man was in front, requesting five tons of grain. Quite a lot for one person.

"_Signor_, you're going to have to pre-order," said the merchant, gesturing to his wares with regret. "I don't have this much."

"But my crew and I need the wheat," said the customer, his words heavy with a Spanish accent. "We forgot to stock up when we left, and . . . and are you sure you don't have any extras lying around?"

The merchant shook his head. "I'm sorry, _signor_. If you want, you can wait a few minutes. There's a ship due to arrive that has just that amount. You can buy the entire cargo."

"I'm sorry. I don't really have the time."

"Then that's too bad, _signor_. Perhaps you can try another source."

The Spaniard pouted.

Feliciano recognized the Spanish Armada admiral's cloak the man was wearing. It was a little tattered and worn in some areas, but it seemed genuine. Feliciano supposed he was—or had been—a naval commander.

Aside from the coat, the Spaniard was well-groomed, had a head of curly brown hair tied to the side in a ponytail, and cheery green eyes. At this moment, they were eyes filled with disappointed. Actually, he looked just about to cry.

"All right, can I get some bread, then?" the Spaniard said.

"Sure thing, _signor_. Give me a second. Can I take your order in the meantime?" The question was directed at Feliciano.

"_Si._ I'd like some flour, tomatoes, garlic, onion, a bit of spice, and peppers. _Grazie_."

"On its way, _signor_."

Feliciano felt someone's rapt attention on him. He had tried batting off this feeling, doing his best to ignore it, but soon his curiousness had won over. He shifted sideways and spotted the Spaniard just ogling at him in a daze. He seemed mesmerized by Feliciano's mere appearance.

"Can I . . . help you?" began Feliciano hesitantly.

The Spaniard snapped out of his stupor, blinking rapidly. "Huh? What? Oh, I'm sorry. Was I rude again? Haha . . . You just remind me of someone I know. You look exactly like him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Do you have a brother by any chance?"

"No. Not that I know of."

"Oh." The Spaniard frowned. "Okay then. The resemblance really is remarkably uncanny. If he agreed to come with me earlier, I could have introduced you to him."

Feliciano waved his hands in a sign of no. "Haha, it's okay~"

"Here's your bread, _signor_."

"Thanks." The Spaniard took the basket and turned to Feliciano. "Well, it was nice speaking to you. See you never, maybe."

"Oh, uh . . . Bye?"

The Spaniard disappeared into the crowd and Feliciano didn't see him again.

_Well, that was weird,_ he thought.

* * *

**Two hours earlier . . . **

"I see the cove," said Holland, peering through his telescope. "The city's not too far off either."

"That's great," said Antonio. "Prepare to drop the anchor. And lower our flag, too, just in case. We want to appear inconspicuous for the time being."

"Captain, if we don't fly our flag, we are even more conspicuous."

"Then fly the Spanish flag. Anything but our pirate flag."

Holland relayed that order to the crew members.

"What are you thinking of, Captain?" he said, watching as Antonio drifted off in deep thought.

"I think that maybe we should head into town and mount an expedition."

"This is not an uncharted island, you bastard," said Lovino. "We don't need to _mount an expedition_. All we need is food and the flash bombs you're requesting for the heist. Did I mention food?"

Antonio grinned. "Are you volunteering, Lovi~?"

"No. I'm just trying to save the brain cells you have left, you idiot."

"Hey, that was mean . . ."

Lovino, as usual, flipped off his captain, rolled his eyes, and marched away to the stern.

"He's not helpful at all," Antonio complained to Holland. "He never does work and all he does is shoot me down. Why did I even let him on my ship?"

Holland answered with the straightest face possible, "Because you thought he would be fun to harass, Captain."

"Oh. Oh yeah. Now I remember." Antonio did a double-take. "Wha—hey! It wasn't _harassment_. Call it . . . entertainment."

"Harassment, Antonio. It's harassment."

"Call me 'Captain', Holland. Remember, you're First Mate now. You can't simply refer to me so carelessly."

"No."

The sky abruptly darkened as the Salernian hills towered over their ship. The _Tesoro_ glided easily into the hillside, blending in with the vegetation. The city disappeared from their view as a rocky cave enveloped their surroundings. Some of the crew members lit a lantern, peering around the gloom. The only other thing occupying the cave was probably the bat population. At least it wasn't some sea monster.

When the tide was higher, the entire area was supposed to be submerged in water. Maybe it was by some uncanny chance, but high tide was due for next week, rendering the usually underwater cavern usable.

Finding the cave only required one short expedition of the city's geography. It was conveniently placed right at the end of the harbour, unnoticeable but close. Their ship was relatively concealed from the authorities if there were to be a sudden pier search.

If they had chosen to dock at the harbour—as idiotic as the notion sounded—yes, they would have been arrested on the spot. _Tomato Box Fairy_ was a regulation ship, but the _Tesoro_ wasn't. It was only a matter of time before anyone found out. Antonio preferred it if it was any other day—just not this one.

Finally, after many hours of sailing, they had arrived in Salerno—the city where the Anglo-German meeting was due to be sabotaged.

The _Tesoro_ dropped her anchor and its crew members filed out from the ship onto the slimy cave floors below.

"Hey, Lovi~" Antonio called up the mast. "Care to come down? You can't spend your life forever on the ship, you know! You need to at least learn some social skills first!"

Silence. He counted to three.

"Fuck you!" was the answer. Typical.

"What should we do, Captain?" Bella asked.

"I'll try to talk to Lovi," Antonio said. "You guys split into two groups: one to grab the flashbombs, and the rest to scour the city for the right place to put them."

"What about the grains?"

"I'll take care of that at the market. Hide your identities. Don't get caught. I want to see each and every one of you alive when I get back."

His crew nodded.

"It's only a few hours until nightfall," he continued, "and then we strike. Lovino will guard the ship in case anyone does find it. As for us, we'll be inland playing our part. Is everyone understood?"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Good." Antonio beamed. "Okay! Have fun, everyone~ Don't stay out too late!"

The crew dispersed, grumbling about how strange their captain was. Antonio was so oblivious he didn't even hear them.

He turned and climbed the mast. He'd hardly gone to the crow's nest himself; it was more of Higgs the Lookout's job. But recently he'd had been unable to occupy the nest.

Lovino practically _lived_ in there. He was almost like a lost bird, not knowing where he belonged and what his purpose aboard their ship was supposed to be. Thus, he hung about in the crow's nest and usually slept the day away.

Antonio even had his suspicions that Lovino did more than he let on. Of course the Italian was as unhelpful as always, but Antonio had noticed over a course of a few years that many of the books from his cabin had mysteriously disappeared. He always knew Lovino was educated to some extent, but Lovino just didn't seem like the reading type.

The only thing the Italian was ever good for anyway was pick-pocketing, but even then Lovino was too lazy to actually get off his ass and be of some use. Antonio ended up doing everything in and around the ship, like cooking, which was usually a job reserved for the cabin boy, something Lovino failed at.

At least Bella was nice and helped out with the meals. Her chocolate recipe was literally to die for. If she told anyone its secret, usually that someone ended up missing.

Antonio reached the top of the mast and hung on for dear life as he smoothed his captain's coat down. He noticed a hole in the fabric and promised himself he'd stitch it back up. After all, it was the last existing evidence of his time served in the Spanish Armada. He would hate to throw the coat away.

"Lovi, come down already!" he said. "I don't want to go up there—it's . . . it's kind of scary, isn't it? Aren't you afraid of the heights?"

"Sure. I'm just not that stupid to look down."

Antonio looked down and gulped. He didn't even know why he did it. "There isn't, by any chance, room in the crow's nest for me?"

"Go away, bastard. Don't you have some grains to buy?"

"Uh, yes . . ."

"Then get going, dammit. I'm hungry."

"Then why don't you come to the market with me and buy something? My treat."

"I . . . I can't."

"Huh?"

"I can't. Just leave already!"

"But why can't you?"

". . . That's none of your business."

"Just this once, come with me. Please?"

"No. Someone has to watch the ship, and everyone else left. Who's going to do it, then, huh?"

"I could do it. Then you can at least enjoy yourself. You hardly ever smile; it's good to smile once in a while."

"Tsk. I said leave me alone!"

Antonio narrowed his eyes, adopting his more assertive role, something that was rarely witnessed by an outsider. "Lovino, I'm ordering you to come down."

"Fuck off, boss."

"_Lovino Vargas_."

Antonio hardly ever called anyone by their full name, but when he did, you knew he was serious.

There was no answer. Ten seconds went by. Antonio growled low in his throat. He should have been used to these sort of responses by now. If Lovino didn't want to cooperate, he just had to _force_ him to.

Antonio grabbed the handles and pulled himself onto the crow's nest. Lovino seemed surprised at his entrance, because he whipped around with his head lowered, his back facing Antonio, as if he was trying to hide something. The bandana he always wore around his head was clutched tightly in his hand.

"Lovino?"

"Who gave you permission to be here?" the Italian snapped.

"Lovino, it's my ship."

The Italian didn't react. Antonio could literally feel waves of irritation coiling off of him, even though his expression was still a mystery.

"Look, Lovino, what's going on with you? Why is it you never want to step onto land?"

"I do. You saw me in Valencia."

"I mean whenever we visit Italy. We've been to this country a total of eighteen times and all of those times you've stayed on the ship. Why?"

"I can't . . ." Lovino strained the words as if they physically pained him. "I can't."

"What do you mean _you can't_? You can; that's your body, isn't it? You can choose what you want to do with it."

Lovino gripped his bandana. Antonio realized it was the first time he'd witnessed the Italian take it off. Lovino was always so keen to be seen with it, rather than without it.

"Did you . . . make a promise you couldn't? Is that it?" Antonio spun his friend around. "Lovino, answer—" His breath caught in his throat. "You . . ."

Lovino tied the long strip of cloth around his forehead, eyes lowered to the ground. "Are you happy now? Did you get your answer?"

"But . . . why?" Antonio was speechless, his face a mixture of horror and confusion.

"Get going, boss. The market isn't open the whole day." Lovino committed himself to a vow of silence and didn't speak after that.

Numbly, Antonio climbed back down. He grabbed his money pouch from his cabin and left the ship. He tried to get that image of Lovino out of his head. He had failed to notice how hassled Lovino seemed earlier, when they were still sailing toward land. It was normal for the Italian to tell him off, but maybe something else was going on.

Six years together and he never even knew . . . Worse, six years ago Lovino had been merely sixteen. Who would give a _child_ that sort of treatment? It was barbaric.

Up in the crow's nest, Lovino watched as his captain exited the cave. He pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed irritably.

_Don't get so worked up,_ he reprimanded himself. _Antonio was going to find out one day anyway. I just wished it wasn't like this. On this day, six years ago, I was . . ._

* * *

"Hey, did an Arthur Kirkland arrive yet, by any chance?" Antonio asked the harbourmaster.

The aged man checked his list. "No. You missed his arrival."

"What? You mean he left already? I'm pretty sure his conference was scheduled to be today, though . . ."

"No, I mean he hasn't even shown up. He's a day late, I believe."

"Oh, really? That sucks. I wonder what happened."

"Did you need him for something? I could deliver a message to him for when he does arrive. What do you need?"

"No, no. No message is required. Thank you, _señor_. Have a nice day."

"You as well."

Antonio trailed the boardwalk, just aimlessly walking. When he gathered his thoughts together, he decided to get his grocery shopping done. He was beginning to grow hungry himself. No matter how delicious churros were, they weren't enough to satisfy one's appetite . . . and also one's need for proper nutrients. His crew members had made that point _quite_ clear.

He had to also worry about Kirkland's soon-to-be arrival, whenever that may be. The operation was meant to be kept a secret and if the Kirklands ever found out their arch nemesis was in town . . . Let's just say there were be a lot of hurt. Antonio hurried to the market.

Every so often he glanced up the hill, as if he could spot his friend Gilbert amidst the population of the town. The Germans were supposed to have arrived already, and if there wasn't anything stalling them, then surely they were here.

On the other hand, the Carriedos weren't expected to be in Salerno at the time of their conference. Antonio was aware that the meeting was kept a secret from everyone safe for those attending. What would be Gilbert's reaction upon discovering that his Spanish friend was in town? He definitely wouldn't appreciate the interruption.

_I'm sure he'll forgive me. It's only flash bombs, after all. Harmless._

Antonio arrived at the market, and he had paused mid-stride to take in the active clamour and commotion that was on the street. He'd thought Spanish markets were busy. Italian markets were _packed_ with material. Agriculture was apparently a huge thing here. Second to art, that is.

He decided to grab a bite to eat first. The smell of fresh cake floated over to his nose, which picked up the scent. As if in a trance, the Spanish captain followed the trail.

"Would you like anything, _signor_?" asked the woman managing the stand.

"Mmm. How much for a loaf?" he asked, pointing to a tray of fruit cake.

"I could pre-cut them for you and you can take them to go. Unless you want the sweet buns. We're having a special today."

Antonio flipped her a gold coin. "Deal."

He grabbed the basket of buns and strolled down the line of stalls. He stopped by a vegetable stand and bought tomatoes, to which he enjoyed as a nice side entree to the sweet buns. A sign hanging against a shop door caught his eye and he entered a small house-like building. The inside was filled with potions and charms.

"I thought this was an apothecary," he said to the manager, noting the amount of witchcraft just hanging about in the shop.

"It is. Can I help you?"

Antonio bent down and examined the bottles sitting in the display case. He straightened and scrutinized the potions on the shelf.

"Do you have any anti-poisons or healing concoctions?"

"Yes, I do." The apothecary picked a few bottles off the shelf. "Mind me asking what you need these for?"

"It's quite dangerous on the sea, _mi amigo_."

"You're a sailor?"

"Something like that. How much?"

"Eleven silver. Thank you."

Antonio scooped up the bottles and dumped them into his belt sack. He then took a gander around the room and marched over to the charm stand. A collection of tinkling jewels spun on their strings.

The apothecary furrowed his eyebrows at Antonio's coat. "Isn't that from the Spanish Armada?"

Antonio's eyes flashed abnormally dark for a second but was quickly replaced by his trademark grin. "Haha~ You caught me! I didn't think anyone could guess, but you have a sharp eye. It's an old, worn down thing, isn't it? Reminds me of the good times." _Good times _was stressed, and Antonio paused before continuing, "Sadly, those days are past. I was once in the navy, but now I'm just a normal guy~"

The apothecary nodded uncertainly. "Shame, it is. The Spaniards were fearsome."

"I'm not fearsome. Hey, let's be friends!"

"No thank you, _signor._" The look in Antonio's eyes was a bit unsettling for his tastes. It was like the Spaniard was forcing himself to appear friendly, when his inner mood was the opposite.

"What's your name?" Antonio continued.

The question caught the shopkeeper off-guard. "Um, it's . . . Alfonso."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Antonio!"

"Do you need anything else?" Alfonso spoke, hoping it was a no and that Antonio would leave. He often got annoying customers and he'd learned to put on a face. After all, shop owners had to be courteous to everyone, even the most obnoxious of customers.

Antonio's smile dropped. "Yeah, actually. What's this?" He was pointing to the charms.

"Ah. They're just bits of accessories infused with an anti-magic spell. Ironic, if you ask me. Taking one with you will ensure that sorcery of any form of witchcraft would not work on you. Are you one for superstition, _signore_?"

Antonio plucked a charm off the stand and held it to eye level. It resembled a gold earring with three red diamond-shaped garnets hanging off their chains. He could swear it was glowing with a powerful magic.

"Not particularly," he replied. "Although, I can sense a storm approaching. This could come in handy."

"Take one with you, free of charge. I'm sure it will protect you when the time comes."

"I know it will," Antonio murmured. His voice was so low that the shopkeeper didn't pick up his words. "Anyway, thanks for everything! I really wished we could have been friends."

Alfonso didn't say anything. He watched the strange Spaniard leave the shop. Honestly, he could never understand how that man Antonio managed to make it into the Armada.

Hold on.

Wasn't that an _A__dmiral's_ cloak?

* * *

Antonio whistled on his way to the grain stand. The man there was selling sacks of flour to customers.

"How can I help you?"

"Five bags of flour, _por favor_. Make it quick, _si_? I don't have a lot of time."

"_Signor_, you're going to have to pre-order. I don't have this much."

"But my crew and I need the wheat," Antonio said. "We forgot to stock up when we left, and . . . and are you sure you don't have any extras lying around?"

"I'm sorry, _signor_."

Antonio hung his head. The merchant went on to explain that the next ship was bringing the following amount of wheat, but the timing was terrible. If he wasn't out of the city and back at the ship in the next hour, his chances of being compromised would increase. Kirkland wasn't going to stay late forever.

"I'm sorry. I don't have any time."

"Then that's too bad."

What if all his henchman were already back at the ship? What if they mounted a search-and-rescue party to find him and he wasn't anywhere in sight? Then what would happen? They would totally ransack the city to find him. This was something Antonio would not tolerate happening. He couldn't risk it.

"Can I just have the rest of that bread, then?"

"Of course. Just a second." The merchant turned to a brown-haired young man. "Can I take your order in the meantime?"

And all Antonio could do was stare.

Yes, he was all too aware that he was being creepy. Okay, he probably wasn't aware at all, but he couldn't help it. The young man before him resembled a lot like one of his crew members, the grumpy Italian cabin boy he kept aboard. The likeness in features was all there; if Antonio had been a little bit more careful with his judgment, he would have deduced that Lovino and this boy were brothers. Except, he based it on sheer coincidence. There was absolutely no way.

Lovino had never spoken about a brother, nor did he ever mention having one. Antonio admitted that he and Lovino were pretty close; it didn't make sense that Lovino would keep something like having a brother from him.

Right?

The Italian _was_ pretty reclusive to start with. When he joined their crew, he had refrained from speaking about his life at all. Now that Antonio thought about it, even as the years went by, Lovino had shared no less than what he started out with. There was so much Antonio didn't know about his henchman, and he didn't think Lovino would show-and-tell anytime soon.

". . . help you?"

Antonio jerked to attention. "Huh? What?" He played the inquiry through his head again. "Oh. No. Sorry if I was being rude. You just remind me someone I know. You look exactly like him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Do you have a brother by any chance?"

The boy shook his head. "No. Not that I know of."

For some reason, Antonio felt there was more to the truth than what the boy was saying. "Oh. Okay. If he agreed to come with me, I could have introduced you to him."

"Haha~ No, it's okay!"

The merchant returned with the bread and Antonio paid the fee. He turned and said his farewell to the Lovino look-a-like and merged with the crowd. It was about time he returned to the ship.

Marching back to the direction of the harbour, Antonio slipped out the anti-magic charm and hooked it onto his ear. He felt a warm blanket envelope his body, creating a sense of safety and reassurance. He straightened and gallantly strode through the pier.

He failed to notice the _Britannia_ docked at the port, and its passengers conversing with the harbourmaster. In fact, the newest arrivals had also ignored Antonio's presence. Neither noticed each other in this brief encounter and it wouldn't even matter.

Because, in the horizon, the sun was setting, and the Anglo-German conference had begun.

* * *

_Dear Awesome People But Less Awesome Than The Awesome Me,_

_Let me tell you a recount of what exactly happened with the bandits, because I was a badass and Ludwig would never let me get a say out of it unless I write it all down. So here it is, my version of what happened:_

_Sometime around sundown, our carriage started jerking. It was already a bumpy ride to begin with, so no one thought anything of it, and we kept going._

_Then a few minutes later, the first wheel popped off and we were sent tumbling to the side. Luds, Feliciano and the Awesome Me scrambled out of the carriage only to find the horses cut and our carriage driver held hostage by a bunch of raggedy bandits. It was a pretty sad sight, if you ask me._

_Anyway, obviously they demanded we hand over all our possessions, but Ludwig was against it. The bandits weren't happy and threatened to slit the carriage driver's throat right then and there. __I know. Being bandits, you'd think they would be more discreet with their operations, like kill the carriage driver, tie us up and steal our stuff while we're helpless. Psshh, amateurs._

_Throughout the entire ordeal, Feliciano just ve'd and smiled at the bad guys. Sometimes I don't understand him, but I'm glad he didn't get in the way. Luds doesn't have many friends, but when it comes to Feliciano, you'd better be scared._

_"There are seven of us, and three of you," they said. "Well, two of you, maybe." They'd been eyeing Feliciano strangely, as if they thought he couldn't be much of a threat._

_"Excuse me?" I'd spoken back awesomely. "_Three_ of us? Aren't you forgetting someone?"_

_"What?" they said. Their faces were so stupid. "You mean this guy?" They jerked our carriage driver. "He can hardly do anything, don't you think?"_

_"I'm not talking about _him_," I said. "Well, I'm not expecting you losers to detect my awesome friend at all, actually."_

_Those idiots started looking around for another person. Their guards were lowered, it was my time to strike._

_"GILBIRD!" I shouted._

_Gilbird was a magical bird handed to me by my old friend Fritz. Fritz had said that when it was the right moment, Gilbird would transform into something majestic, something grand, something . . . awesome. Hey, his words, not mine._

_To this day, I haven't seen Gilbird do it once, and this time was no exception._

_In his small, yellow body, Gilbird pierced through the air and swooped around the bandits, pecking at them and releasing some bodily projectiles. Safe to say, it was a messy ordeal._

_During that moment of confusion, Ludwig grabbed the carriage driver and began running into the forest with Feliciano at his heels. Well, actually Feliciano was at front. Italians could run fast when dared._

_I snuck into the carriage and grabbed my sword. Gilbird was still outside, distracting the bandits, but he could only go at it for so long before he got tired. As I exited the carriage, the bandits circled around me in a semi-circle. I spotted Gilbird up in the trees somewhere, pruning his feathers. He had done his part, and now I had to do mine._

_"Ever heard of me, gents?" I said, my sword drawn._

_They laughed, like that even mattered to them. All they wanted was the goods aboard our carriage._

_"My name is Gilbert Beilschmidt," I stated, "head of the Beilschmidt family, and therefore . . ." I charged forward, ". . . I'm more awesome than you."_

_Bodies toppled to the ground one after one another. They stood no chance against me. I owned them in an instant, and I even had the decency to keep them alive, just so they could fear me._

_"And that"—I sheathed my sword—"is how things are done, gentlemen. Never mess with my family or my friends again, understood? I swear I will melt out of the shadows when you're sleeping and kill you. You have my word."_

_I don't know what happened next, but the bandits sort of fainted. Maybe it was out of the sheer awesomeness of my awesomeness. Who knows. I'm being modest here, guys._

_I grabbed the ropes that were previously attached to the horses and used them to tie up the bandits. Then I emptied the carriage of its contents and dumped the bodies in there. I tossed them a gold coin before slamming the door shut and bolting it._

_It took a while to find Luds and the others, and the amount of luggage I was carrying didn't help. The carriage driver seemed unhurt, and they were preparing the evening stew. I helped gather firewood, and then I told them of my fight against the bandits._

_Maybe it was something I said, but they all stared at me in a berating sort of way before shaking their heads._

_This was the sort of thing I did daily. Why should they be so surprised? Because I was in charge of the family's security, I couldn't be bothered with the role of the head, and so I passed it on to Luds. Fighting was what I did best, anyway. Why should anyone take away my happy place?_

_Well, I'm done. I could go on forever if I could. This one page letter limit is kind of annoying, but it's Luds' orders, so . . . I had to write extra small, you know! And the stupid ink is smudging all over the place. Scheiße._

_Stay Awesome,_

_The Awesome Me_

* * *

**Soo . . . ? What did you think?**

**I'm pretty sure next chapter's where the Kirklands and Beilschmidts meet up and also where the Carriedos' attack begins. It's going to be epic.**

_**Adieu~**_


	6. Take My Advice And Don't Be Late

**This was originally supposed to be one part, but I had to split it up because after editing this chapter, the letter count reached over 10k. I honestly don't want to give you wonderful readers a heart attack, so enjoy this little bit. Next chapter should be out within a few days.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Antonio entered the cave about two hours after departure. He could see dark forms gathered on the deck aboard the _Tesoro_, almost like a mob debating on what to do next. He heard light whispers of words being exchanged but he couldn't make out what any of his crew were saying. He ignored this and marched on, though his confidence boost from back at the pier was slowly decreasing.

As Antonio neared his ship, he started to notice the waves of agitation flowing off his crew members. What could have gotten them so worked up?

He crossed the gangplank and met the eyes of his crew, who were gathered around a small makeshift table with a map of the city in the middle. They dropped whatever they had been doing and faced him. Antonio couldn't help but feel like he was being judged.

"Hey," he said, "did I miss anything?"

"You come back late," said Bella, "and you ask _if you missed anything_."_  
_

Antonio couldn't comprehend the purpose of her question. "Er, yes. I mean, I'm the captain, right? I should be updated on an hourly basis regarding your statuses." He wandered over to the planning table and peered down at the map, curious.

Red X's on the map indicated where the flash bombs had been mounted, and general circles around each X showed where each of his men were being stationed. Not many were around the conference hall area, because the flash bombs there were placed to be triggered from a distance. If anyone saw one of his men crawling around the building, waiting to light the flash bombs, there would have been a problem. Antonio couldn't risk any problems.

"I think _your_ status is what she's more concerned with," Holland corrected.

"My status. Wha—?" Antonio's head snapped up, bewilderment alighting his features. "But—"

"Something like running down to the market doesn't cause you to be an hour late. What were you doing out there, Captain?" Bella demanded.

"I—"

"We were gathered ready to discuss the plan tonight, to make sure what each of our roles are. We really needed you here as a valuable input. And when you didn't show up . . . I believe you can imagine our surprise."

"But the meeting?"

"We're finished. We were finished a while ago."

Antonio opened his mouth.

"Did you manage to get the wheat, by any chance?" Bella said. She gestured to his basket of sweet buns. "I'll take that as a no."

"It's—"

"What I'm saying is that I was worried. You need to be more careful with your time management. I know you're the captain, and you have the higher authority, but that doesn't mean you can do whatever you want without telling any of us. We had a schedule to stick to, Antonio."

"Which was written by me, remember? A little change won't hurt."

Bella ignored him, unconvinced. "Next time, if you're unable to do something, just say so. I'm sure one of us will be happy to help out."

Antonio straightened and locked eyes with her, his eyebrows set in a hard line. "Bella, it's either buying the wheat—which they didn't have—or getting it by illegal means, and you know we can't do that anymore. We have to remain inconspicuous. Stealing won't help with that. And I understand that now is a crucial time, especially since we are so vulnerable and we're here for a less-than-legal participation. That was the reason _for_ the schedule. But I had to deviate a little away from it to ensure our ongoing secrecy. You of all people should understand my reasons for it."

About seven years ago, when Antonio first veered towards piracy, he went about his days stealing in order to survive. As his crew grew and grew, and the number of hardworking souls tripled, he finally found the confidence to move on and buy things instead of resorting to pillaging.

Of course, if his ship was confronted by any pirates, especially English ships, he looted them of their cargo before leaving them to sink. He even tried the classic _stealing-from-the-rich_ concept, but that didn't pan out in the end. Nobles rarely lived close enough to the coastline, and if they did, their homes were heavily guarded.

"It still doesn't take you an hour to buy bread," said Bella, crossing her arms. "Why were you out so long?"

"That . . ." Antonio seemed to recall a detail. "I met a boy."

"I thought we were supposed to keep what we do in our free time out of conversations," said Lovino from the sidelines. The Italian was leaning against the ship's main mast, having recently climbed down from the crow's nest.

It took a while for Antonio to understand what he meant, but eventually he got it. "No! No, I don't mean it that way! This boy—he was . . ."

Antonio had shifted his eyes over to Lovino, ready to tell his henchman all about the boy at the market, when he remembered what had transpired earlier in the crow's nest. Antonio hurriedly averted his gaze and clammed up.

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "He was what?"

"Never mind," said Antonio, still not looking in his direction.

"Whatever the case, you need to set your priorities straight," Bella continued. "This has happened far too many times, and if you're not going to take charge of where you'll be and when you get back, then it looks like somebody else will have to."

The level of equality on the _Tesoro_ was almost like a fairy-tale compared to the governmental systems of that time. Anybody on the ship had the freedom to give their judgment and take charge over the captain, if the situation warranted it—which didn't occur very often on other ships. Many still stuck to the original tradition and left the decision-making to the captain, but certain people like Bella and Lovino took every chance to voice their opinions.

Antonio didn't believe in giving one person all the power. He split his own responsibilities into several and gave those to the people he trusted the most. These people being Holland, the ship's First Mate (he oversaw most actions on the ship); Bella, who was secondary cook and also the ship's Navigator (gave opinions on where to head next/how to get there); Miguel, the Quartermaster and Head Shipwright (in charge of taking care of the ship in general/fixing it); Juan, the merchant (inventory/spendings); Michael, the doctor/surgeon; and lastly Lovino, the ship's default scholar, since he was the only one with a decent education (brains of the operation).

Antonio called his little entourage a 'council', although most meeting they held together rarely made progress. In the end, the chosen orders that Antonio would give his crew members had already been decided beforehand by a majority vote.

Sometimes, when orders had to be made in a split second, Antonio had no choice but to go by his gut and hope that the outcome was favourable. At the least, he didn't have stress over commanding the entire crew on his own. He'd always thought of downplaying his authority so that his men didn't feel pressured by his presence. This system of arrangement had saved all of their lives more than once.

"Are you listening to me, Captain?" said Bella.

Antonio blinked a few times, bringing his attention back to reality. "_Si_, why wouldn't I be?"

"Leave him alone, Bella," said Holland. "I'm sure he's understood his mistakes, don't you think?"

Antonio shot a grateful look at Holland, who returned the gesture with a nod.

"I only want to be reassured that he'll stop sidetracking and actually get things done," said Bella, weary. "You _can_ promise me that, right, Antonio? Accomplishing your task comes first before chasing after girls, siestas and taking long walks along the coastline. I'm just trying to keep our little family together. Many of us don't have the actual luxury anymore."

"Bella, you know the reason why he does all those things," said Holland.

"Yes, I get it. It's to cope—or whatever he calls it," she agreed. "Still . . . I don't like what he's doing to himself."

"That's not for you to decide."

"And it's something for you to decide?"

"Guys," said Antonio.

"No," Holland answered, "but you're certainly acting like it is."

Bella stepped up to her brother. "I'm just doing what's best for him."

"The only person who knows what's best, is Antonio."

"Guys, that's enough!" Antonio snapped, raising his voice barely above a shout.

His crew quieted and Antonio bit down on his tongue to avoid another angry outburst. It had come out so fast he'd barely had enough time to contain himself. But it was obvious his patience was wearing thin. He needed to set things straight before Bella and Holland became distracted again.

"This hardly is the time for fighting amongst ourselves," he said calmly, silently berating himself for losing his temper earlier. He watched as his entire crew practically flinched at his words. "What I do out there is not any of your businesses whatsoever. We have a mission, remember . . . ? You can yell at me all you want afterwards. For now, we need to stop this bickering and complete our objective."

"I'm still not through with you yet," said Bella. And then, surprising everyone, her features softened considerably. "But you're right. I just want to be certain that you don't run off on us one day. Remember that issue with your parents? I'm sure you don't want us going through what they had to go through."

_Yes, my parents,_ Antonio thought bitterly. _And what happened to them was all my fault._

Antonio didn't like to mention the topic of his parents, or his personal life in general for that matter. A policy he'd written beforehand was for everyone who joined his crew to respect the privacy of others. And now, the very two people he trusted the most were breaking the rules. The rest of his crew had the decency to shuffle away or appear like they hadn't heard anything. But of course they knew everything now.

Antonio opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it and said, "I didn't run off this time."

"One day you will, and you wouldn't even realize it. You'll be caught up chasing after Kirkland and you'd forget about us."

"Is that what you're worried about? That I'd just . . . abandon all of you? I'm your captain!" Antonio turned and faced the entirety of his crew. "I wouldn't! Honestly! I'd never leave any of you."

"Not directly," Lovino spoke up, staring at the deck. "But slowly, you are. You think none of us have noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Antonio asked.

Lovino shook his head like _Why do I even bother?_

"All right, I know I can be a little . . . absent sometimes," Antonio said, wishing very much to return to the task at hand. "But I know what I'm doing. Really. Just trust me on this."

The majority of his crew were skeptical. Antonio purposely ignored their stares.

"Now, if we're finished here, I'm sure all of you have somewhere to be," he concluded, and he started to roll up the map on the table.

Bella sucked in a breath and released it. "Fine," she spoke in a quiet but firm voice. Antonio's tone had suggested that he didn't have any time to play around, as often as he seemed to do it. "I'll just report that we've purchased the flash bombs and have mounted them in the correct locations."

Antonio sighed; his shoulders were tense from the conversation. "Thank you. We can get started immediately, then."

His crew dispersed, some to the cave floors and others below-deck, leaving Antonio, Bella, Holland—and surprisingly, Lovino also remained.

"You need something?" said Antonio.

Lovino had stayed unmoving from his place against the mast. He was staring at his captain in apt interest. Antonio was beginning to feel self-conscious.

"Hey, bastard." Lovino spoke like he was in a trance. "Can I ask you a question?"

Antonio raised his eyebrows. "You want to ask me . . . a question."

"Yes," Lovino muttered impatiently. "Is that too a hard a concept to grasp? Need I explain what a question is?"

"No, it's just—" Antonio frowned. "I don't recall you ever needing a favour from me."

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up. This isn't a favour."

"It may as well be. To be honest, I don't want to answer you. I know what you're going to say."

"Hold on, I never—"

"I can guess."

"If this is about what we were arguing about before, Lovino," Bella broke in, "forget about it. It was nonsense."

"That's not it, as interesting as this bastard's life is," Lovino said. "Fine, Antonio. Consider me asking a favour. Will you answer?"

"Sure."

"What is your relationship with the Kirklands?"

There was no malice, no trick, nor accusation in the question. It was stated as a regular inquiry, although the topic itself was as every bit as irregular. Antonio's green eyes narrowed at the forbidden name _Kirkland_, darkening into a poisonous olive. He looked ready to shoot Lovino for asking, but his anger subsided quickly. No one seemed to have noticed this rapid change of mood, except Lovino. The Italian had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself grounded.

"Why do you want to know that?" said Antonio, deciding to give his underling the benefit of the doubt. However, his tone of voice was chilling.

"I've been a part of this crew for six years, but I've never been told why you despise them that much."

"Lovino, that's enough," warned Bella.

"I agree," Holland added. "That's a territory you shouldn't be trespassing upon."

"If we're going through with this idiotic plan of sabotaging their meeting, I want to know what I'm dealing with," Lovino said, squaring up to his captain. "I want to know your reasons for bearing arms against them."

"You're barely involved, Lovino. You don't have to know," said Antonio.

"Barely involved, my ass. This is for your sake, bastard, not mine—now, _tell me_. I'm a part of this crew just as much as the next man."

Lovino was absolutely adamant. Many should have feared the Captain, and many did—but Lovino didn't. He was either oblivious, brave, or stupid, because he constantly pushed Antonio to the brink of his limit and he did so with no regrets. He was the only one that unknowingly treated his captain as an equal, instead of a higher-up.

Antonio secretly admired Lovino for this trait. When it came to everything else but battle, Lovino Vargas was no coward.

"Bella, Holland, go join the others. I'd like to speak with Lovino . . . alone."

Bella and Holland shared a look. Talking about the Kirklands was nearly taboo on their ship, and only the captain could mention it, which was a rare occurrence. No one knew why Lovino was an exception to those rules, but he just often was—forcefully inserting himself into other people's business had its share of upsides as well as downsides.

Holland moved to leave, but Bella remained perched in her spot. He grabbed her arm. "It's better if we don't bother them."

"But—"

"Bella."

"Fine." She directed the next part at Antonio, "Don't take too long, all right? Sundown is not too far away."

Antonio gave her a nod of affirmation, and that was about the only answer she obtained from him before she was forced to leave the deck.

Once they were gone, Antonio released a heavy sigh. "So, Lovino. Your question."

He still wasn't looking at his underling. He hadn't been looking at Lovino at all, actually. Their moment in the crow's nest still plagued his mind; his heart was heavy with worry, among other concerns.

"Hey, look, bastard. I don't expect you to think of me any differently than from before you found about what happened to me. Stop treating me like I'm fragile or something. It's annoying."

Antonio peered up at his henchman's face in surprise. Lovino's bandana was tied around his forehead, but Antonio could see through it. It was as clear as day.

"What? How did you—?"

"You're like an open book, you know that?" Lovino huffed in irritation. "I can tell you're trying to avoid looking at me. And it's fine. I do that, too. I don't like remembering what happened six years ago, but I can't help but think about it on the anniversary. Sometimes you just need to be reminded of your mistakes. It shows you're human. You're not the only one keeping secrets."

Antonio couldn't meet his eyes. "Lovino, I'm—"

"What? You're sorry? Don't be. You owe me this, bastard. You know my secret, now you have to tell me something about yourself. Pirate's code, right?"

"Yes . . . you're right. I haven't been a fair boss lately, have I?"

Antonio knew there was no getting out of this one, despite wanting to keep his past a personal matter. Lovino did, in fact, have a right to know. Antonio owed him that much. He hopped aboard a barrel and crossed his legs. Lovino stood where he was.

"Your question. Can you to explain a bit?" Antonio said.

"I'd like to know why you're dedicating your life to foiling the Kirklands' plans. Seems rather intimate, don't you think?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Lovino nonchantly. "Just that you have some sort of personal history with them."

"Well, I wouldn't say personal." Antonio's gaze hardened. "But somewhere along those lines, it came to be."

"How?"

"_How it started_ is a difficult matter to delve into and it will require time to explain, but I'll begin with my side of the story. My family's struggle with the Kirklands spans back centuries, to the time of my great-great-grandfather. Since I was a child, I was told to unquestionably despise the Kirklands. It's what I was taught to believe from my parents, and their parents unto them."

"But you were a child. Opinions change greatly by then."

"That's true, but it was the opposite for me. I had never believed a word that my parents said about the Kirklands. One time, I'd actually thought I could bring about peace between our two families. And then . . . Well, the day I joined the Spanish Armada, my parents' wishes became a reality. It changed everything I knew about the Kirklands.

"I realized what hypocrites they were. They believed in nobility and loyalty and courage, but all they showed me was cowardice." Antonio's eyes were ice. "They claim and go by the most honourable of virtues, but they never seem to stay true to their word."

"Sounds like you've had first-hand experience," Lovino noted, trying to keep the exchange light.

Antonio glared at the ground. "That was a long time ago."

Lovino crossed his arms and peered at his feet. The conversation seemed to be taking a turn towards the dark side, with or without his hand in making it otherwise.

Antonio's mood had soured quickly. This wasn't the first time Lovino had experienced his captain's irritation, and it so happened he knew he should avoid Antonio like the plague. But he couldn't bring himself to fear Antonio. Lovino understood how frustrated his life must have been, running an entire family while being only 25-years-old. He didn't like admitting it, but at times the both of them were so similar, it scared him.

"Do you know what the Carriedos were, Lovino?" said Antonio out of the blue. "We were poor farmers. We worked up from the dirt to become who we are. It's hard work and dedication that earned us this status. But the Kirklands were always different. The minute they were born, that's who they were. That's what I hate about them. Their character is constantly based on their status, but status?" Antonio weighed the words on his hands, as if they were physical objects. "Status is nothing. It's what's in here"—he tapped his chest—"that counts. If others only realized that, this world would be . . ."

_A better place,_ Lovino's thoughts finished.

An optimist's thoughts. He wasn't an optimist.

"So what exactly happened with the Spanish Armada?" said Lovino. "How did the Carriedos and Kirklands become enemies to begin with?"

"That's the question I was warning you about. I'm afraid it's much too early to tell you, Lovi. Ask me once you've met Kirkland and maybe I'll tell you."

Lovino quickly realized the catch. "But that would be never."

"Exactly—well, maybe one day. But not today."

"It's been six years. Don't you think I should know?"

"Nope." Antonio's _nope_ sounded oddly final, rather high and too edgy. He hopped off his barrel and started for his cabin. He crossed the deck and lay a hand on the doorknob, ready to twist it open.

"Do you still believe what your parents say, though?" Lovino called to his back, and then quieted his voice. "Even now?"

Antonio looked half-way behind him. He took a long time to answer, his expression contemplative.

"It's more complicated than you think. I'd thought about ending this feud between us. I know it's not blatantly obvious, but I do try. However, my days of hesitating are done. I'm not a child anymore. I know what I believe in, and I'm sticking to it."

Lovino deliberated his words. _That obsession will be the end of you, Antonio. But who am I to judge. I'm a hypocrite myself._

Unknowingly, he'd started chuckling, as if sharing some inside joke with himself. Antonio heard him and raised an eyebrow.

"You all right, Lovi?"

Lovino stopped abruptly, as if only now noticing his bizarre behaviour. "Yeah," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You sure?"

"_Figlio di una cagna, quando dico che sto bene, sto bene._"

Antonio raised both hands in surrender. "_Bueno_. No questions asked."

The Spaniard was significantly less rigid than before. Telling Lovino of his history had relieved some of the burden off his shoulders. Although, due to the previous conversation with Bella, he realized that he'd been holding a lot less trust than he'd previously anticipated with his crew members. His unorthodox trips away from the ship and the unhealthy amount of time spent with frivolous activities were the cause for it. Even with the evidence stacked against him, Antonio refused to let this get him down.

"Sorry if I disturbed you or anything, Lovi," said Antonio. "I know I don't show this side of myself often. I don't think I like to either. You understand why, don't you?"

Lovino exhaled. "Lord knows I want to deny that . . . but I can't. I get what you mean."

"_Gracias_."

"You're welcome," Lovino mumbled grudgingly.

They stood in comfortable silence, neither really speaking to the other. As their moment passed, Antonio turned back to the cabin door and made a move to open it, but he didn't enter.

"Why did you really join my crew, Lovino?"

"Huh?"

"All those years ago. Why this crew?"

"Don't you remember? You didn't leave me a choice. You dragged me after you, spouting some crap about travelling the globe, and I thought, 'Hey, why not?'. I didn't think you were actually being serious, and when I wanted to leave, you blackmailed me into staying. Why are you asking me this now?"

Antonio shook his head. "Never mind."

He still hadn't moved an inch. Antonio didn't know what it was that was making him stay. It just didn't feel right turning his back on something that was clearly his problem. Lovino sensed some unfinished business and started up with a new topic.

"Someone else took the liberty to go out and buy the groceries, by the way." He flicked his wrist toward the direction of a dozen crates stacked on top of each other. "It looks like we knew you'd sidetrack somehow and end up coming back two hours late."

His journey to his cabin all but forgotten, Antonio relinquished his hold on the door knob and flipped around to face Lovino. "It was more like forty-five minutes."

"Right," said Lovino, not believing him in the slightest.

"Wait, hold on. You said you couldn't go out."

"Did I say it was me? You may thank Miguel for taking initiative."

"Miguel does like to take initiative, doesn't he? Isn't inventory sort of, like, his job?"

"He's Quartermaster. Not the merchant, you bastard."

Antonio stared.

"And there's something else," said Lovino, his face set in an uncharacteristic seriousness. He crossed the deck and stopped in front of Antonio, leaning in towards him with his voice lowered, "Kirkland's ship docked at the harbour an hour ago. We underestimated their numbers. You guys need to be careful tonight."

"An hour ago?" Antonio mumbled to himself. Then it clicked together. "I must have walked right past them at the harbour! I can't believe I missed them. More importantly, I can't believed they missed me. Kirkland just doesn't seem like the type to let a pirate slip past him . . ."

Lovino snapped his fingers in front of Antonio's face. "Focus, would you! I'm telling you, if you're not paying attention and you're caught, there's a lot of things that can happen. I can list off a dozen right now; the government is utterly merciless when it comes to—"

"And how would you know?" Antonio batted his hand. "This isn't the first time I've conducted a raid. Just trust me on this."

"Trust me," Lovino insisted, gaze stoney. "I know what I'm talking about, all right? I've been there."

"You've been persecuted before?" Antonio was surprised. "B-b-but I swear you haven't been out of my sights. Well, there was that one time—you came home fine, though! Unless . . ."

"You've actually got it backwards, but— Look. That's not the point. The point is—"

Holland chose that moment to walk in on them. "Bella says it's time for supper. We're eating on the cave floors tonight. Come get it before it's gone." He paused at the odd scene in front of him. Antonio was amidst gesturing sporadically and spluttering incoherently while Lovino looked ready to strangle his captain. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, it's fine," said Antonio.

"All . . . right?" Holland left the deck.

"Okay, bastard, as I was saying—"

Antonio held a finger in front of Lovino's face. "Wait, hold that thought. I smell paella. Let's leave this discussion for next time. It's better if we have a decent meal before we start the mission."

"Whatever. Go enjoy yourself."

Antonio frowned. "You're not coming?"

"No. There's a . . . novel I want to finish."

"A book? You read?"

"Yeah, otherwise those books you have gathering dust on the shelf would be pretty useless, don't you think?"

"But what if you get hungry?"

"I'll just eat straight from the crates."

"No, this doesn't feel right . . . you should come eat with us." Antonio felt a wave of parental concern flood his insides. He'd spent six years watching and taking care of Lovino. Just because Lovino was past the age of 'manhood' didn't mean he shouldn't continue being a good guardian, or boss, as he liked to refer to himself.

"I'll be fine, bastard. It's you who's conducting the raid. Keep your strength up. I'll be"—Lovino wrenched open Antonio's cabin door and ducked inside—"in here. Don't wait up."

"Lovi, come on—"

The door slammed shut.

Antonio frowned, muttering to himself, "Okay, then. Take care of yourself, Lovi." He crossed the gangplank, wondering why Lovino became so considerate all of a sudden, and joined the rest of his crew feasting on the cave floor.

Lovino scowled from the cabin's window, eyes trailing after his captain.

Sometimes, Antonio frustrated him to no end. The bastard automatically—almost subconsciously—used the tactic of obliviousness to escape the pain that knowledge brought. He pretended things never happened, that revelations never occurred, just so he could be spared of the worrying.

But Lovino saw through it. Antonio had instead bottled up all these conflicting emotions to be stored for a later date, and he usually released all that tension alone. But Antonio had always been a ticking time-bomb. You never knew how he was going to react to certain things, or how he would go about fixing things. He just smiled on like the idiot he was, even though that happiness was, in reality, false.

The only time the Spaniard was truly happy was . . . actually, Antonio became happy over the stupidest of things. Like siestas and tomatoes and girls and ships. (Although, Lovino admitted reluctantly, the first three weren't really that stupid. But the ship. Oh, he hated this fucking piece of junk with a passion.)

Mostly, though, sailing was what brought a genuine look of wonder on Antonio's face. And even sometimes, Lovino thought, that joy wasn't precious enough to last.

* * *

"Er, _hallo_?" Ludwig caught the arm of a passerby and stopped him. "Have you seen a man about this high with a dozy expression on his face? He also has a curl that goes like this." He hooked his finger around in a loop. "Also, he should be eating pasta of some sort."

The Italian man he'd halted just stared back blankly.

"I suppose that's a pretty general description, isn't it?" Ludwig asked in defeat.

"_Mi dispiace, non capisco,_" said the man, and he walked away.

"Luds, the guy couldn't understand you," said Gilbert, eating what appeared to be a cinnamon bun. "Don't worry. I'm sure he's seen Feliciano somewhere. You have to be more specific."

"That sounded pretty specific to me," Ludwig muttered. "And bruder, would you please put that away. This is hardly the time to be eating. We need to find Feliciano."

Gilbert put his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm trying. You can't conduct a search with an empty stomach."

Ludwig groaned, bringing a hand to his face. "That is your excuse for everything."

"Luds, maybe if you took some time to learn more Italian, we wouldn't be having this problem."

"And Feliciano getting lost is my fault."

"Um, yeah. Whose else's fault could it be?"

"Gilbert, tell me the reason why we lost Feliciano."

"Because you left him standing alone in the market?"

Ludwig gritted his teeth. "Yes, now tell me why I left him standing alone."

"Because you followed me?"

"Yes, and why did I follow you?"

"To make sure I didn't do anything stupid?"

Ludwig started clapping. A slow, mocking clap. "Brilliant, _bruder_. I knew you could figure it out."

Gilbert scoffed. "Don't act so surprised. I know I'm awesome."

Ludwig brought his hand to his face again, but with more force this time.

"Okay, no," he muttered to himself. "I can't be bothered with this. I need to find Feliciano."

He started off and Gilbert followed.

"FELICIANO! FELICIANO, WHERE ARE YOU?" Ludwig yelled over the heads of the market crowd. A few people turned and stared but carried on afterwards. It wasn't everyday they had a German foreigner, but seeing diplomats from other countries was commonplace.

"FELI, YELL OUT PASTA IF YOU'RE NEARBY!" Gilbert shouted, his hands cupped over his mouth. He dropped them when he realized it was futile. "Where did that guy run off to anyway?"

"He couldn't have gone far. I mean, we were just there, and he was just there . . ." Ludwig flipped around and glared at his brother. "I hope you're happy."

Gilbert chowed down on his cinnamon bun. "I am, thanks for asking. This is really good, by the way. We should have bought one for Feliciano."

"You running for the bakery is the reason why we lost him! Now help me search!"

"Whoa. Calm down." Gilbert held out the basket. "You should have one. It'll calm your nerves."

"I don't want a cinnamon bun!"

"LUDWIG! GILBERT! HEY! OVER HERE!"

Ludwig turned around and visibly deflated with relief. "_Gott_, Feliciano. There you are. Where have you been?"

"I was buying some pasta ingredients," said Feliciano, holding up his latest set of endeavours. He frowned. "There was also a strange man there . . ."

"What?" Ludwig gripped his friend's shoulder in alarm. "Who was he? Did he do anything to you? What did he say?"

"No, nothing. He was a very friendly kind of person. I think he mistook me for someone else for a second, though."

Ludwig blinked. "Oh." He dropped his hands. "That's it?"

"Yep!"

Gilbert had been silent this entire time, wearing an inquisitive grin. "Do you have a description on this person, Feli?"

"Huh? Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just want to be sure."

"Umm . . . He had brown, curly hair and green eyes. He was wearing a Spanish Armada's coat. Oh, and he's Spanish!"

Gilbert's red eyes flickered with alarm for a second. "Spanish? Armada?"

"Si. Why, is that bad?"

"No, no. It's not bad at all."

"_Bruder_, is there something you're not telling me?" said Ludwig.

"Nope." Gilbert spun around so they couldn't see his expression, which was a mixture of horror and surprise. "Not at all."

Ludwig wanted to interrogate Gilbert further on this subject, but Feliciano beat him to another.

"By the way," said the Italian, "I ran by the pier earlier. The Kirklands are here. I saw their huge ship! She's very pretty."

"If you saw them, you should have greeted them," said Ludwig.

"Well, this meeting isn't about me greeting them. So I thought I'd run back here and inform you so you can do it personally. That's how things usually go, right?"

"That's . . . true."

"What are you guys waiting for?" said Gilbert, already making his way to the harbour. "Come on! They're not going to stand around forever!"

Meanwhile, at the pier, Arthur Kirkland was trying to converse with the harbourmaster whilst yelling at Francis at the same time.

"I blame you, you bloody frog—you're the reason why we're so damned late!" He gestured to the parchment the harbourmaster was holding and magically he was gentlemanly again. "Terribly sorry about the late show; we got attacked by pirates." He rounded on Francis. "No thanks to you, perverted wanker! You still haven't told me why they were after you!"

"Dude, Artie, it's all good. We're alive, aren't we?" said Alfred, hoping to calm the situation.

"Shut up. If you hadn't decided to take a pit-stop along the way, we wouldn't be an entire day late!"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "We were a day late anyway."

"Hold your tongue, young man, or I'll do it for you," Arthur threatened.

"I don't know why you're so worked up, Artie. It's not like the Beilschmidts expect any less from you."

Arthur threw Alfred one of his infamous armour-piercing glares.

"A joke!" Alfred rushed out. "It was a joke! Chill, man!"

Arthur, in response, pointed to Francis and then to him, mouthing _You're next._ Alfred was used to this, but he was aware of how creative Arthur's punishments were. Despite his heroic courage, Alfred shivered.

Matthew leaned in toward Leon, and whispered, "Should we stop him?"

"I don't think so," the Asian replied.

"You're always so uptight, sourcils," said Francis. "You should calm down a little and enjoy life more. You have to admit that being on the sea and fighting pirates releases some pent-up sexual tension."

Arthur's face went beet red. "I'm not you, Frog! I don't have creepy fetishes! Get that image out of your head! AND TELL ME WHY THEY WERE AFTER YOU!"

Francis batted aside his inquiry. "How I got into your country was by no means legal. Let's just say I needed some leverage, and those pirates provided it."

Arthur slowly advanced on Francis. "So, you're telling me . . . that you tricked them . . . and had the appropriate blackmail for if they did find you again."

"You already knew! Why did you ask me, then?"

Arthur snatched Francis by the neck and started strangling him. "I. Should. Have. Kicked. You. Off. Of. My. Ship!" Between each word he jerked Francis' neck violently.

Francis protested. "Let me go! You might break something!"

"That's what I'm aiming for!" Arthur shoved Francis to the side so violently he almost pushed the Frenchman off the pier, and he drew his sword, readying himself for some glorifying manslaughter.

"AHEM!"

The both of them froze, Francis cowering away from Arthur, and Arthur holding his sword just over the Frenchman's face. A broad, tall man of German descent stood with his arms crossed, his feet placed shoulder-width apart. Behind him flanked two others: an albino, red-eyed man with similar features, and a younger male with brown-hair that resembled much like the people of the town.

The blonder of the two Germans spoke first.

"You're late."

* * *

_To whoever is reading,_

_That went well, didn't it?_

_The thing with my parents . . . _

_I don't talk about that because they're the reason why I'm here—why I'm doing this._

_They're not around anymore. I was a coward, and I ran away to join the Spanish navy. _

_I was told that they passed thinking that I'd died at sea, and that they killed themselves over it. _

_Afterwards . . . I don't know what happened. I saw red. I fled. And I quit the Armada. _

_I only came home to see them because the Armada could no longer function—at least, not after those freak storms off the English coast. I stole my ship from the docks, and I sailed. I sailed far, far away._

_But those events still haunted me. One cannot simply quit the Armada and not pay compensation. There were still battles to be fought for the Empire, and I couldn't handle any more bloodshed. Not after what I've done._

_The last remnants of my old home are still there, although burnt to a crisp. I loitered around, but the atmosphere soon became sickening. I took to the sea again. This was where I could be free, away from the military, away from my priorities. I didn't have to take orders, I didn't have to kill for the sake of someone else, and honestly, it felt good leaving all that behind. Piracy wasn't tolerated, but it was freedom, and I'd take freedom over having a home any day._

_This is vague, I know. It's been an incohesive blur to me. My new home, with Lovino and Bella and Holland and all the others__—I'll make sure it doesn't burn as easily._

_~Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_

* * *

**Review, maybe . . . ? Come on, guys. Tell me how bad you _really_ think this was. Nah, I'm kidding. Ending messages suck.**

**So the first part with Antonio was all serious and angsty and it didn't turn out so well. My primary forte is humour, so that's what came of the second part, with the Kirklands and Beilschmidts' meeting. Is the characterization believable? Anything I need to work on? As far as I know, fanfiction is just a way to practice and kill time. But anyway. Enough ranting.**

**I honestly hope you've enjoyed this chappie, and to my fellow Canadians and also the Americans out there reading, HAPPY CANADA DAY AND HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY!**

_**Adieu~**_


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